


Predilection

by Mongruad



Series: Predilection verse [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abuse of Authority, Age Difference, Bottom Tom Riddle, Erotic Electrostimulation, Heterosexual Sex, Humiliation, Love Potion/Spell, M/M, Masturbation, Mind Control, Period-Typical Homophobia, Professor Harry Potter, Riddle at Hogwarts Era, Spanking, Stalking, Teacher-Student Relationship, Teenage Tom Riddle, Time Travel, Torture, Watersports, but only one scene, crystallized pineapple
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-30
Updated: 2020-06-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:34:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 33,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23932378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mongruad/pseuds/Mongruad
Summary: Professor Potter, noticing Riddle’s uncanny interest in mind control methods, decides to carry out an experiment with the boy’s willing participation.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort
Series: Predilection verse [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2121189
Comments: 70
Kudos: 431





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Firstly, I would like to give a special thanks to my betareader @winking_peas! Your help makes a big difference for me and for the story!
> 
> And then some general notes. I am making an assumption that Tom being born at December is already 18, when he starts his seventh year. This story resolves around scenario that can be considered an abuse of power/authority. It's marked Mature for now and it won't evolve into smut, but some sexual scenes are expected - because of 'love potion' tag, consent may be considered invalid though. :shrug:

#  **Chapter 1**

_ Year 1944 _

Tom Riddle’s seventh year in Hogwarts starts as all his previous years have - with a welcoming feast. Firsties wouldn’t know, but older students whisper scandalously as Professor Merrythought isn’t present for the first time since she was hired.

Headmaster Dippet rises to his feet and the Great Hall falls silent save the sporadic clicking of utensils and goblets. He’d welcomed them earlier, but evidently he had more to say. “Dear students,” he starts, his voice oddly hoarse, “before you leave for your dormitories, I have some announcements to make. I am very remorseful to inform you that Professor Merrythought will not be teaching this year, as she has decided to retire.” 

Tom grimaces and Clarence Avery says exactly what he is thinking, “Wasn’t she planning to wait a few more years before retiring?” Tom simply nods and they listen to the Headmaster as he explains further.

“You can see, dear students, that Professor Merrythought's seat has stayed empty today. You shouldn’t worry about that. In a few days, a new instructor will be introduced to you,” he says and his face looks truly sad, “I am very sorry that you will not meet them today.”

Tom studies the empty seat some more before he is dragged away to fulfill his Head Boy duties.

In the morning, he is asked to hand timetables around. Defence Against the Dark Arts is still present on all of them, with the exception of students who had bowed out of the subject after taking their OWLs. There is still not a word uttered about the new teacher.

Tom is Head Boy though, and he leads his classmates to the DADA room as they have it first this year.

Someone has already stripped the classroom clean and only the bare walls are left with lighter squares indicating the places where Merrythought’s educational posters used to hang. Someone closed the curtains as well and they sit in the semi-darkness, breathing in the stale air and dust. 

Tom sits between Clarence and Gilbert Rosier per usual, head propped on his hand. They tend to stick with him, for better or for worse, and he doesn’t mind their company too horribly. People around them chatter idly, many of them wondering whether they can leave already.

“Apparently, some of you think that the Dark Arts are a joking matter,” a voice reprimands and Tom whips his head up towards the front of the room.

The man sits behind the teacher’s desk, legs resting on the top of it, and he is wrapped in a black cloak. He must have been there for a long while, hidden in a dark corner because Tom didn’t hear the front door open.

He must have been under a disillusionment spell, believes Tom. 

“I was observing you in the hallways,” says the man, “and I am convinced you lot aren’t even a little scared of war. Yesterday, hundreds of people were killed, did you know that?” He rises to his feet and comes closer to the front row but he stops on the edge of the platform. “Muggles or wizards, yeah?” He points his wand, tip incandescent, at Aramita Black who’s sat close to the door. “It’s what you want to ask, don’t you?”

He lowers his wand. Every pair of eyes follow his movement in silence.

“I will disclose something to you all. It doesn’t matter because you could have taken their place, and they yours. You are woefully unprepared. Careless. Weren’t you instructed by Merrythought to stay sharp?” his face is obscured by the hood of his cloak, so they can’t see what expression he makes as he waits for their answer. When he is met with ringing silence, the man orders grimly, “Then I order you to be vigilant.”

But he is still not finished. He raises his wand and intones, “Expelliarmus” and Nott’s wand slips out of the boy's pocket and soars straight into their new professor’s outstretched hand. Then he disarms another and then another, until he holds five newly claimed wands.

Tom is the first one to get to his feet with his face scrunched up. He whips his wand out and glares daggers at the man. He refuses to be a pathetic sitting duck. Students follow his example and soon they all stand huddled up at the farthest end of the classroom.

The man stays silent and they wait.

“Maybe I am Grindelwald’s man, what am I doing here? No one is going to ask me?” he demands. “Is that because of fear? Or out of belief that the student next to you should be the one to dare opening his mouth?”

Tom recognizes a taunt when he hears one. His mouth twitches, “Who are you, sir?” he asks and straightens his back. He doesn’t lower his wand for a moment.

And the man laughs. “Exactly the question I was waiting for!” Then he throws their wands back at them. They clatter the ground when they prove to be unable to catch them with the area being so crowded. Like sheep, thinks Tom about students hidden behind his back. “I am your Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher starting today. My name is Harry Potter.”

The name means nothing to them.

Tom decides to understand who this Potter was. An opportunity presents itself to him soon enough in the form of the Slug Club meeting.

“It’s always so long,” complains Clarence when they put on their robes in their dormitory, “Aren’t you going to become the Minister, Riddle? So I can start kissing your ass just now!”, he intones mockingly and makes kissing noises in the general direction of Tom.

“If you really try to do it, I’m going to suffocate you,” threatens Tom, scrunching his nose in disgust and Gilbert chokes with laughter, “And you too, Gilbert, I’ll stuff your face with that crystallized pineapple until you die if you don’t stop that on your own accord!”

It just makes them laugh harder and Tom tries not to smile, but the corner of his lips curl upward anyway.

He convinced his fellow students that Slug Club meetings are prestigious if only because  _ he  _ attends. Clarence takes the big box of sweets that Tom had procured to stay in Slughorn’s good graces and Gilbert calls him a moron for doing things the muggle way.

They greet Slughorn and Tom presents his gift to him. A bribe, truth to be told. They take a seat as the Professor gushes over his small gesture and the chamber fills slowly with students.

Tom swallows down one of the marzipan bars that was set for them to go with the tea. He is weak for them, he has to admit. He clears his throat with a sip of water and asks, “Have you ever heard about Professor Potter, sir?”

“Why would you ask me that, Tom?” Slughorn’s forehead creases unflatteringly.

“We’ve been wondering what he used to do before taking up a teaching position here,” explains Clarence, while shaking the crumbs out from his robe. 

“There is no one better to ask,” murmurs Alphard Black, playing along. “We just feel you know everyone, Professor.”

Slughorn chuckles. “Yes, yes… Surely… Professor Potter is told to be a reputed Auror, dark wizards hunter some say…” He swirls around the wine in his goblet and takes a slow sip. He looks around and preens when all of the assembled have their eyes glued to him. “Such reputation is bound to be earned with years of experience, my dears. That being said, I myself have never encountered him before.”

“But Professor,” Interrupts Alphard, “Surely some of your many friends must have mentioned him…” Tom listens attentively all the while mindlessly turning the Gaunt ring on his finger.

Slughorn just smiles awkwardly. “I am afraid not, I can’t help you more.” And then he promptly changes the subject, proceeding to grill a few fifth years that were invited for the first time to the meeting.

Tom thinks that maybe Potter isn’t that important if Slughorn never heard about him. Not that he should care, it is his last year anyway.

  
  


They weren’t the only group scared by Potter's welcome, but Tom discerned they got it the worst of it being the eldest. He carefully observes Potter; he seems perfectly ordinary, with a mess of dark hair and heavy round glasses slipping down his nose. Faint smile lines creasing around his eyes and mouth indicate his age. Potter’s only conspicuous quality is light bolt-shaped shar standing out from the tanned skin of his forehead.

“This book,” says Potter, lifting said tome up for all of them to see, “would have us go into masking first, as pages from 10 to 63 are devoted to this topic.” He grasps these pages as if to show them. And then in the midst of the silent classroom he rips them swiftly and throws them on the floor.

Tom winces at the sound of tearing paper.

“Of course we won’t be learning this.” He looks at their ministry approved textbook with disgust, as if it was rotten. “You proved to be unable to cast a simple shield, how will you be expected to learn finicky spells like the disillusionment charm?” He shakes his head. “Preferably, you will be instructed by me how to detect an intruder at your own house.”

He rips out pages until there is the only cover left at his hands. Then he closes it neatly and puts it away at his desk, shredded pages littering the floor around his feet. He tramples them as he moves around.

“Good, so now you are informed what you will learn this year. I don’t care whether you note anything down or not, you’ve chosen to be here, so I believe you can discern what is best for you. At the end of the year you will sit a test. It’s very simple, even a squib can pass it, and then you will leave this place and see for yourself, what you have learned.” He gives them a lopsided grin. “Any questions?” he asks.

There is one hand raised and with a wave of his hand, Potter lets the girl speak.

“Don’t we need to learn these ministry approved topics to pass our NEWT, sir?”

“I was told previous NEWT exams are available to all of you in the library,” he replies. “I don’t believe they are necessary to pass, and neither will they help you if you can’t manage easier things on your own.” He throws his hands up in exasperation. “Theory isn’t everything.”

He lets others speak and answers general questions about his changes to the curriculum. Tom is calmed that at least this man seems to wish to teach them something and is cool enough about explaining his reasoning.

“As you surely understand, your homework is to master the spells that I demonstrate to you. I expect you to learn necessary definitions for written exams outside of this classroom. Now that everything is clear, I would like to explain what you can do for extra credit. At the end of the next week you can submit a ten inch essay on the topic of your choice. Don’t test me though, it’s supposed to be related to the subject.” And then they are dismissed. 

Tom is presented with a challenge of choosing a topic that is  _ appropriate _ . He aims to impress. It drives him the following day to stand in front of Potter’s office after his lessons have ended. He smartens his robes, puts a pleasant smile on his face and then knocks.

“Come in,” calls Potter and Tom steps forward.

“Good afternoon, Professor,” says Tom and he makes it a point to look around. There is a full-length mirror next to the entrance but he can’t see himself nor anything else that should be reflected.

He is ready to introduce himself, as surely Professor may not remember him yet, but Potter beats him to it;

“How can I help you, Riddle?” he asks. He sits behind the desk, a metal tea kettle on his left. He puts away a parchment on which he was scribbling something. 

There is no chair to offer towards visitors and Tom stands there awkwardly with his fake smile.

“I have been thinking about the task you have given us, Professor,” begins Tom.

Potter squints his eyes at him, “If you don’t like the task, Riddle, you don’t have to do it. It’s for extra credit.”

“It’s not like that, sir,” assures Tom hastily. “I think I figured the topic for my essay out. Unfortunately, I didn’t get permission to access the restricted section this year, yet. Would you be kind enough to write a permission slip for me, sir?” he asks politely, hands clenched behind his back to not wring them.

“What topic is that?”

“I aim to consider - speaking broadly - the topic of fear,” answers Tom. He halts just to take a breath, but Potter breaks in, not giving him a chance to explain fully:

“Fear,” the man raises his brow “how is it related to my subject, Riddle?”

“I meant,” says Tom emphatically, “that I planned to consider methods of frightening people, their effects and, what is most important, including ways to defend against them.”

“Magical methods, I hope.”

“Charms, potions, maybe illusions. The Dark Arts related methods for the most part.”

“Riddle,” says Potter, forcing the student to look at him attentively, “have you ever encountered a boggart?” When Tom only nods, Potter continues, “Very well, Riddle, surely it took place in previous years of your DADA education. What form has it taken for you?”

Tom swallows and can’t stop himself from twisting his fingers anymore, a nervous tick of his. Hopefully the man won’t notice. “It was a very long time ago, sir, I am not sure it matters anymore…” he says slowly, anxious not to confess more. But when Potter stays silent, looking at him expectantly, Tom feels forced to carry on. “I have seen my dead body,” he whispers.

“I see.” Potter nods curtly. He leans back in the chair, the same way that unruly students would. “Have you ever experienced terror, Riddle?”

“A terror, sir?” repeats Tom hesitantly. “I don’t think so.”

“It’s a very peculiar answer, Riddle, a funny one. It’s very rare for a dark wizard to sit down face to face with their victim, like you stand before me now, and take time to strike fear into their heart.” he falls silent for a longer while and gives Tom a calculating look. “Fear is stricken into the hearts of thousands by the way of terror.” He shrugs and the chair wobbles dangerously. “Anyway, I barely wanted to make you aware of that. The topic you have chosen is very interesting. It betrays your interest in torture.” Potter smiles widely. “So have you come here to study the dark arts with my permission?”

Tom tenses, and then purposely he forces his body to relax. He makes his response appropriately weak and a bit indignant, “Of course not. I came here to write a good essay.” He was a Head Boy, there wasn’t any reason to be suspicious of him.

“You won’t find anything other than the dark magic books in the restricted section.” Nevertheless, Potter summons a slip of parchment and grabs a quill. “Don’t worry, Riddle. I’ll sign it anyway,” he murmurs as he does exactly that.


	2. A feather

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Professor Potter helps Tom gain a visceral understanding of some Latin words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thank you to @winking_peas for your help!
> 
> All mistakes in this chapter are mine - hopefully I will get if fixed when exam time passes but in meantime, please, bear with me. I wanted to publish this chapter because plot wise it's complete (and I don't won't you to ask yourself "What does this title do in my notifications?").

#  **Chapter 2**

_ “Have you ever experienced terror, Riddle?”, _ Tom can hear resonating in his head as he makes detailed notes about potions inducing a state of paranoia. He uses his permission to access the restricted section to its fullest, already having completed a part about well known curses that he would ask about.

He is well aquitanced with fear, with dread carving an alcove for itself in his stomach. He would never say it out loud because  _ Lord Voldemort fears nothing _ .

“I liked today’s class very much, professor,” praises Tom. Remaining students are packing their bags and walking out of the Defence classroom, when Tom stands in front of the teacher’s desk.

A charmed sponge wipes the scribbled incantations and wand movements from the blackboard. It’s barely legible in Potter’s handwriting so it’s not a loss. Tom tries not to sneeze as chalk dust clouds the air.

“Thank you,” says Potter. He folds his notes into a messy bundle and Tom itches to straighten the sheets. “Don’t be late for your next class.”

Tom clears his throat. “It was my last class. Could you spare a moment to talk with me about the essay, sir?”

Potter looks at him. He seems tired by merely thinking about spending time with his student. Before he deems it appropriate to answer, he packs his things into his bag, leaving the desk completely clear.

“Do you need help with something, Riddle?” He tucks his wand away into his pocket and looks ready to leave the room, whether he hears about his student’s problem or not.

Careless disregard is not the worst thing that Tom had to deal with but it reminds him how it feels to mean nothing. His hand twitches and he, an orphan of no value, aches to curse something if only to make the feeling go away. _ Lord Voldemort is not to be sidestepped _ .

“I came upon a mention in one of the books,” he starts.

Potter cuts in, “In a restricted book, Riddle?”

Tom nods and phrases it as his teacher wishes, “Yes, sir. In one of the restricted books a curse that induces a state of panic in a victim was mentioned,” he says. Potter heads off, inviting Tom with a sparse gesture to follow him and so he trails two steps behind the man. “It’s unusual to achieve such an effect with a curse and not a potion. I decided I cannot fail to mention this in my essay.”

“Why won’t you do it, then?” asks Potter curtly. 

“I was unable to find more information about the mechanics of this curse. I hoped you would help me, sir.”

In the office Tom can smell faint traces of man’s cologne instead of classroom dust. The mirror reflects neither of them, the same way it did during his first visit. This time there is a chair though. It doesn’t match the decor. It looks comfortable and has purple, patterned padding. Tom suspects it’s another professor’s doing. He allows himself to take a seat.

“In which book did you find this mention, Riddle?” asks Potter and sits down behind the desk.

“ _ Modern Discoveries of Magical Arts _ , sir,” answers Tom. “I have it with me, if you would like to have a look at this passage.”

Potter pushes his glasses up his nose.

“I would.”

Tom takes out of his bag a very thin book with a dark violet cover and puts it on the desk. He pushes it closer to the teacher. Potter just looks at it thoughtfully and taps it with his wand three times. Nothing happens and ex-Auror opens it on the title page.

It looks new. Printed only recently.

“Translated from German,” comments Potter, “I shouldn’t be surprised. Which page?”

“Page one hundred fifty six,” says Tom without breaking stride. He remembers this clearly and no word surprises him when the teacher starts to read.

“ _ Another method of instilling fear into one’s enemy is to use against him a rare neurological curse. Magic can couple a type of object or behaviour chosen by the caster with the part of the brain responsible for the emotional reactions of the victim. The sight or sometimes even mention of linked object induces a state of unreasonable fear. The incantation is ‘phobia’, point your wand at the victim. _ ” Potter reaches the end of the paragraph but he looks at the open book for a moment longer with his eyebrows knit. 

He can’t see it at the moment but  Tom can picture the illustration taking an entire page of the book. A single wizard lifts his wand and a blood red curse hits one of his three opponents. The cursed man covers his eyes with his hands and stills. Then he lunges at his comrade with a shout, bringing him down and making him unable to participate in further fight.

“What don’t you understand, Riddle?” questions Potter.

“Is it possible to throw this curse off?” is Tom’s first  inquiry .

“Ah, curses and potions of this type mostly leave the victim completely vulnerable. They cry, love, fuck, kill… Even told what happened to them, they wouldn’t be able to react,” Potter explains grimly.

“A strong-minded wizard is able to throw the imperius off,” remarks Tom. 

“It is not your will that someone has to fight off. The victim is struggling with its own body’s physiological mechanisms. Understanding the cause helps nothing, their entire attention is absorbed by fear or whatever they are influenced by.”

“I am not sure I understand,” admits Tom quietly.

Potter doesn’t answer. He is looking into Tom’s eyes, thinking about something, deciding. He must have come to agreement with himself because he calmly lifts his wand and points it at his student’s face.

“ _ Phobia _ ,” whispers Potter and Tom is blinded by red light.

His world becomes pitch black and shapeless. Even as he feels his head turn and eyes blink rapidly, nothing seems to dissipate the gaping void. He waits, disoriented, and when he’s again able to see Potter’s office, everything seems to be perfectly in place again. Pale daylight floods the room through the curtainless window and spirals of purple smoke is coming from an unremarkable vase in the corner.

Potter is no longer pointing his wand at him. No, instead he holds a feather between his fingers, twirling it. Tom knows this trick. He would do it in a similar way - roll it through his fingers, grasp the other end and let it roll right again. And then start anew.

It’s a long, brown feather. He follows its movement with his eyes attentively. Somehow he feels he couldn’t turn away, if he tried. Is he observed? He doesn’t know. Tom opens his mouth to say something but his throat goes dry. Unable to unstick his tongue, he clenches his jaw with a click.

There are some little, light specks on the feather vane. Potter stops his fiddling. He holds the feather loosely between his fingers, letting it sway freely. Tom is lost as to why his heart is beating so quickly. Then Potter points in his direction with the soft vane and Tom violently jerks back, almost falling down with the chair. He breaths in shakily.

Why was it so close to him? He tries to move away, the chair scraping loudly on the floor, but it’s nearing his nose…

“Get it away!” he cries out. “Get it away from me!”

The chair hits the floor with a loud thud, when Tom jumps abruptly to his feet. But the feather, that cursed feather is even still too close. He wants to swat it away with his hand but he aborts the movement half-way through it, clenching his eyes shut so tightly that tears well up, and unable to touch it. 

He pants and yet he feels not a particle of oxygen stays in his lungs. 

Tom draws back, forgetting about the chair until he trips over it. He falls oddly twisted, hitting the floorboard with his shoulder. 

He barely notices the pain that strikes through his body like electricity. He crawls back, scraping his nails at the floor carelessly in an effort to just  _ get away. _ The worn leather of his shoes squeaks when he drags his feet away desperately and Tom shuts his eyes so he can just not look at the damned feather.

Something tickles his nose. He opens his eyes abruptly. A brown shape dangles in front of his face. A feather. It tickles and it makes him half laugh yet half moan. Tom tries to escape from it, crawl away from it where he is stretched on the floor. His arm gives away under him and he falls completely flat onto the hardwood.

It’s everywhere - on his nose, mouth and forehead, touching his eyelids and ears. Tom can’t get away so he tries to cover his face with his hands.

It makes him scream - a scared, pitiful sound leaving his throat and ringing loudly in the room. It makes his heart feel ready to burst. 

“Finite,” says Potter and it can’t be barely heard above Tom’s scream.

It takes him a moment to fall silent when breath leaves his lungs. He gasps. The need to wail is gone. Now he is left with aching throat and dry lips. His hands are shaking and he feels strangely bleak, bereft of panic.

Tom sits up and massages his left arm. “W-what,” he croaks. Why was he shouting in the first place? He licks his lips. No one is so generous to answer his unasked question. 

Potter towers above him, wand in his one hand and the feather in another. He is strangely quiet, observing Tom with cold gaze. There is some unrecognized emotion. Humiliation flares up in Tom viciously, bitter taste flooding his mouth.

Tom tries to blink the moisture from his eyes away. His hands twitch to wipe his face in a sleeve but he holds back, choosing to ignore it. He stays on the floor unable to gather himself together just yet.

“Have you felt able to fight against the curse, Riddle?” asks Potter. 

Tom listens carefully, wanting to detect any traces of pity or mockery in teacher’s voice. There is nothing he can read into.

Potter without a word lets the feather fall onto Tom’s lap and returns behind the desk to take a seat.

Tom feels cold air his calf. The legs of his slacks have been a bit too short since the beginning of the year. He got disheveled during his struggle to get away from the feather and now he tries to adjust his clothing, smartening the robe balled on his lap.

“No, sir,” he says with great effort.

It feels like forever when he sits there shaking. He is sweaty and his shirt too tight under his armpits. All the while Potter simply waits. There are no reassurances or apologies given to Tom. Instead he observes unadvertably. 

“You have chosen a feather, sir”

“Yes,” agrees Potter, “it was close at hand. Have you got what you need for your essay, Riddle?”

“Y-yes, sir.” Tom clenches his jaw making his teeth ache from the strain and forces his body to move. He gets up sluggishly. The feather sticks to his sweaty palm. “Thank you for your help, professor.”

xxx

“Where is Tom?” Gilbert is tugging his scarf as his face steadily becomes more flushed.

Clarence shrugs as he looks around. “I wish I knew.” They have been waiting next to the entrance to the Common Room up to this point. Meanwhile more and more students leave for Hogsmeade. “Do you think he is still asleep?”

They both know it would be unusual for Tom. Gilbert shakes his head helplessly. He takes his cap off and heads to the dorms. Clarence follows closely behind him. 

They go through the dark, narrow corridor that forces housemates they pass to press against the wall. For some reason it wasn’t designed to let students walk two-ways the same time. Then they climb stairs polished by years of use. Thick carpet mutes its creaking somewhat.

Tom is there, crouching next to his wardrobe. He puts some books from his private stock and pieces of parchment on the growing pile. “Tom,” says Gilbert.

The boy turns to them and considers them with something akin to surprise. “Yes?” asks Tom.

“Are you not going to Hogsmeade with us?” questions Clarence. “We have been waiting for you downstairs but it’s time to leave, if we want to go.”

Understanding dawns on Tom’s handsome face. “I forgot it’s today,” he says in a measured voice. “I have been just preparing to take some time to finish my homework for the week as you see.”

“So you are not joining us.” Gilbert sighs. He rubs his brow, where a bead of sweat is slowly making his pale face glisten in an unhealthy way. Dungeons are cold but not cold enough to walk in a thick coat.

“No, I am sorry.” Tom twists his lips in unhappy grimace.

“You should have told us,” starts Gilbert and then with resignation concedes, “but I suppose you really forgot. We will bring you some sweets, alright?”

“And that smoking pot if we get our hands on that stuff,” adds Clarence.

Tom nods. He rests his hands on the pile of books he has prepared. “That would be… much appreciated.” The robe he is wearing looks washed-out in bright morning light. It gains a greenish shade after passing through the lake’s water.

“So what are you going to work at? I thought you have it all finished.”

Tom gives a pile of books a sour look. “I did finish everything,” he agrees, “apart from this essay for Potter,” he adds. “It took me awfully long time to even collect notes I need to write it properly. How have you written yours so quickly?” he asks.

“I didn’t.” Clarence shrugs. “It’s much too much work to be worth these points.”

Tom turns to Gilbert his questioning gaze, one eyebrow raised slightly.

“Don’t expect me to spend a week discourising about cursed mirrors, Tom. I finished it in one evening.”

“I am sure there is more to this topic. Have you described the one in your hallway?”

“Yes, I am sure you would describe it more in depth, Tom, than I did,” says easily Gilbert. “I mentioned the mirror, though it would be a stupid thing to do to admit it’s my family’s property.” He smiles thinly. “We don’t want to be late, so we are going to leave now. Have fun with your essay.”

They shuffle out of the dorm, leaving Tom alone with with his work. He pull out a brown quill from his drawer and carefully levitates books and accesories down to the common room. The quill is different from his usual white one coming from standard set of wizard’s writing utensil.

It’s not a thing he would expect anyone to notice. He sits down to craft his essay and as he writes the sight of a brown speckled feather fills him with a warm feeling of satisfaction. It’s his now.

xxx

It’s unexpected for him to relieve this scene in the Potter’s office again in his dreams. There is a figure of the man towering above him when he lies sprawled on the floor, his limbs long and useless. 

Tom doesn’t experience fear anew. Instead he feels heat filling his body to the toes and warming his bones. He twists in his bed and in his dream - aching for something he doesn’t know yet. This night it’s caused by the heat itself, another night an imagined painful curse makes him tremble from electric shock.

There seems to be no purpose to these dreams as they simply last without a thing changing, evolving until Tom wakes. He scowls, deeply unsatisfied by waking up before reaching a culmination of any sort, and pushes his flushed face into a pillow.

xxx

“Those of you who have brought an extra essay I set for you to write a week ago, leave it on my desk before you leave,” says Potter when his students start to pack.

Tom smoothes down his robes and dutifully approaches the teacher’s desk with a scroll in hand.

Potter looks up. “Is it of proper length, Riddle?” he asks.

Tom nods. “It is, professor. I exercised brevity to include all I wanted to.” Someone reaches from behind his back to leave an essay without a work. Tom simply stands there in useasy silence and hesitation gnaws at his gut. His face stays fixed into polite smile, his dark eyes unwaveringly focused on Potter. “Are you planning for us to write another extracurricular essay, professor?” he utters in the end.

Potter smiles and laugh lines around his mouth become more pronounced. Amusement glints in his eyes as he says, “I might. Or I will think of another exercise to adequately occupy you, Riddle.”

Tom swallows and nods. “That’s good, sir. It has been a great learning experience for me,” he says.

Potter almost laughs at his words, it’s easy enough to see. “I am sure it’s been… ”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Professor Potter gives Tom another chance to further his research.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to thank @winking_peas for help and advice! Much love to you.
> 
> I don't even pretend to have a writing schedule so I decided to show this boy to you before end-of-semester work makes me disappear for some time. Hopefully I won't regret that. Anyway, let me know what you think.

#  **Chapter 3**

Tom stands arm in arm with Gilbert Rosier, an indignant scowl on his face. Next to them is Abbott with half of his face swollen red from stinging hex that Tom landed moments before Dumbledore caught them duelling, in the corridor no less.

“A Head Boy like you, Tom, should know better.” Dumbledore’s voice rings clear in the hallway. “I am afraid I will have to assign a detention to all three of you, boys.”

_ Scolding is what you get for trying to help a friend _ , Tom thinks darkly and sends a glare Gilbert’s way. The boy is too busy putting on a guilty face to be bothered by this.

Professor Potter happens to descend from the third floor, where he surely stayed late in his office, as they had their duel.

“Ah, Professor Dumbledore,” greets Potter genially. “I hope they are not causing you any trouble?”

“They merely behave like the teenage boys they are, Professor Potter,” assures Dumbledore. “You don’t need to worry as I stepped in just in time.”

Potter nods his head but doesn’t take Dumbledore’s words as a clue to leave him to handle the issue on his own. Instead Potter stays to watch the proceeding. “It seems they need to be reminded of the rules. Are you assigning them a detention?”

“I am afraid yes,” replies Dumbledore gravely. “They greatly disappointed me, all three of them,” he admonishes, and said boys cringe in feigned shame. “I believed you mature enough to resolve your differences in a more reasonable way. What a sad sight it is to an old professor like me to see you fighting in the hallway.”

“We are sorry, sir,” apologizes Gilbert, stepping forward. Tom stays silent, knowing better than even to open his mouth in Dumbledore’s company. “We understand there is a better way to do it than to duel.”

“Well, my boys,” Dumbledore muses, as he scratches his auburn beard in thought, “I think a week of detention with me should be quite enough. Let's say we will start at 7 o'clock.”

“If you don’t mind, Professor Dumbledore...” chimes in Potter with the slightest hint of hesitation.

“What can I do for you, Potter?” offers Dumbledore without fail.

“I think I would borrow one of them to help me with some preparation for my classes. It’s just the right task for detention, I think. Would you miss Mr Riddle horribly, Professor Dumbledore?” Potter smiles and gains faint dimples in his cheeks.

Dumbledore is more than eager to get rid of responsibility for Tom, never being the one for overseeing crowded detentions. “Not at all.” Then he seems to remember something as his eyes widen in remembrance. “I will leave you to this, then, I wouldn’t like to miss dinner with a friend. A lovely invitation I got,” he says and departs in a flurry of gaudy fuchsia robes.

Potter clears his throat and unclasps his hands. “We can start your detention now, Riddle, as I wasn’t planning on attending the supper, or we can wait until 7 pm”.

“I would like to start now, sir,” agrees Tom. He is eager to spend time with his mysterious teacher, but it’s not something he is willing to show.  At the same time he thinks that Dumbledore would never chose corporal punishment as a means of discipline - he doesn’t know what to expect from Potter.

“Follow me,” orders Potter and without a second glance turns on his heel. Tom follows him close behind. The man stays silent until they reach his office. He twists the handle and door opens smoothly and silently, as if not closed in the first place. With a wide gesture of his arm, he invites Tom to enter. “Take a seat, Riddle,” says Potter and he goes to open the window. Fresh, cold air wafts harshly into the stuffy room.

“Professor Dumbledore never agrees for someone else to oversee my detentions, sir,” says Tom carefully  as he looks around. Some time has passed since he had an opportunity to be in the room.

“And why is that?” asks Potter. He looks through the window, his back turned to his student and the frown on his face remains unseen.

“You see, sir, he doesn’t like me very much. And I think he just likes to keep a close eye on me,” explains Riddle. He takes his time to smooth his robes as he sits on the hard, wooden chair with his back straight, hands clasped on his lap - the image of ideal propriety.

It’s a different chair than last time, he thinks. This one fits the office better somehow.

Potter turns to him then with a tiny, wicked smile and moves to sit behind the desk. “You must feel relieved then, having detention with me instead. Would you like to know why Professor Dumbledore so easily let me take you?” he asks and leans forward, impatiently waiting for an answer.

“No, sir,” says Tom and grips the material of his threadbare Hogwarts robe just a little tighter.

Potter’s smile widens. “I will tell you then, Riddle. Professor Dumbledore doesn’t have to worry about me being slack with you. I know just as well as him what a delinquent you are, Riddle.”

“I don’t think I deserve to be called that, sir,” protests Riddle. A flush colors his cheeks.

Professor clicks his tongue. “Now,” he says opening one of the drawers “there is something I would like you to do.” He offers a crooked smile to his student. “For your assignment, let’s say,” suggests Potter and puts a small vial on the desktop. “Have a look at that,” he adds, pushing vial towards Tom.

It doesn’t require any answer, so Tom takes the vial silently. It’s a small one, no more than 25 milliliters, maybe even less. It’s unnamed and glows a pale pink. “What is that, Professor?”

“I would like you to drink this, Riddle,” says Potter and looks Riddle straight in the eyes. Tom was told to be a natural legilimens, without any effort on his part he could gleam if he was being told the truth or a lie. Now there was nothing, just solemn green eyes.

What was expected out of him, he wondered. Was he to be made to understand something on his own skin? He swallowed heavily, collecting his thoughts. 

“I believe it will be easier on you, if I don’t inform you until the very end, how this potion is supposed to influence you.”

“Is this… Another one of the mind control methods, sir?” asks Tom hesitantly. He would like to reach for his wand to twirl it between his fingers - it would lend him some calm. He forces his hands to stay where they were, staining his arms even though they were supposed to lay slack. Unbothered. He really needed to stay calm.

“That’s right, Riddle. As you approached me with this topic on your own volition, I understand it’s an honest interest to you,” replies Potter and Tom almost feels in his bones what will follow. “It’s not a nice topic, Riddle, in fact it’s just foul. Would your interest fade, if I ignored it? I doubt it. So let’s carry out an experiment, Riddle.” and then he adds with a sardonic smile, “Out of pure academic curiosity of course.”

There is no question whether he wants to. Tom looks at him slyly, his head lowered. “What about my detention, sir?”

“We can consider it a part of your detention,” answers Potter. “What is your decision?”

“I am sorry, Professor, but I am not sure if I understand what would be expected of me during this experiment?”

“The potion I offer you,” starts Potter and he hesitates, “is a very insidious one. I expect of you a difficult thing - to detect how it influences you and report that. I will award this with extra points like any other essay, if you do a good job.”

Tom gnaws at his lower lip. He stops it as soon as he takes notice that he’s doing it. “It’s going to be quite personal, isn’t it, sir?” he questions.

“There is no need for anyone else to read what you hand in,” Potter reassures.

And so Tom uncorks the vial and drinks the sweet, syrupy potion, looking his professor in the eye all the while. He can feel his pupils dilate the moment the last gulp is swallowed.

He puts the now empty vial back on the desk and asks “Should I expect some immediate effect, sir?”

Potter shakes his head, “No, Riddle. We are finished for today with your detention.”

xxx

It’s Sunday but Tom anyway spends his afternoon in the library surrounded by battered books and Gilbert, who looks ready to fall asleep with his heavy eyelids dropping lower and lower, hunched over a thick tome.

Timed transfiguration is certainly not going to be on his NEWT exams and yet he studies the subject out of honest interest. He looks up one moment to notice Professor Potter walking into the library. Tom wants to read on but finds himself distracted. He looks at the man as he treads between shelves. 

He didn’t notice Slughorn earlier, but he does now when potions professor approaches Potter. Tom furrows his brow. 

Slughorn and Potter stand arm in arm in front of the bookcase dedicated to potions. Potters grabs some book, which the title Tom can’t read from that far, and then Slughorn walks up and accosts him.

Tom doesn’t consciously decide to rise to his feet. He acts and he moves closer, close enough to hear their conversation as he stays hidden behind one of the stacks. Potion titles do nothing to catch his interest as he looks above and through the gaps between the tomes. 

Slughorn talks to Potter in a low voice and Tom instantly dislikes that immensely. “Harry, my friend, I have been wondering, are you by any means related to Fleamont Potter? I wouldn’t dare to presume, but you two have similarly messy hair - don’t be offended, my friend, it has its charm - and well, you are both Potters.”

Potter dismissively waves his hand. “No offence taken, Horace,” he assures. He pushes his only free hand into the pocket of his robe and Tom knows it serves to stop idle fiddling with a hem of his sleeve. “But I am afraid I have never met this man, Fleamont Potter, and I believe we don’t share any blood…”

In classes he tends to twirl his wand between his fingers as if bored. It’s rude and it looks almost threatening. Tom has never seen him doing that in front of staff members.

“Oh, that’s alright too. You are a great wizard in your own right as I am sure you know… But have you heard about Fleamont’s success?”

Tom is sure it’s the reason why Slughorn brought up this topic in the first place.

“What did he do?”

“It seems he proved to be a talented potioneer, my friend. He created a potion - I believe it’s called  _ Sleekeazy Hair Potion  _ \- that was able to tame even the infamous Potter hair of his,” explains Slughorn.

“Maybe I should try it as well,” says Potter with a soft laugh and then he shares “My aunt tried to cut my hair as she was able to do nothing to change how it looked. It has grown back overnight.”

Slughorn smiles wistfully “Ah, first accidental magic manifestations… I miss those days. Wouldn’t those occurrences come in handy even now?” He takes his time to just stand there and reminisce about his younger days and then proposes in friendly fashion. “If you would like to give it a try, my friend, I think I may find an unopened jar or two in my cabinet. I have no use for them.”

And truly, there is not much hair left on Slughorn’s scalp.

The following day Professor Potter appears for Defence Against Dark Arts class with perfectly tamed hair. Tom internally notes how this small adjustment emphasises man’s strong jaw.

Gilbert edges closer to him and murmurs, “You should stop looking at him like that.” He knocks their bags with his shoe as he moves back. Instantly he reaches under the desk to right them.

Potter hasn’t said a word since he entered the classroom and chatter continues as he scrawls something on the blackboard. He does it by hands, chalk coloring his fingers white, and it’s barely legible.

“I should stop looking at him like  _ what _ , Gilbert?” asks Tom tersely and Gilbert raises his eyebrows in bewilderment.

“In such an inappropriate way, Tom, you know what I mean. Keep that up and everyone will know,” murmurs Gilbert in an even lower voice. He looks around checking if anyone is paying attention to them. At least he can be trusted to be discreet.

His words make Tom tense and his lips thin. He forces himself to make a neutral expression. It stays on his face for several minutes, making him look as if he put on a literal mask.

“Surely no one would care what I think about a professor,” utters slowly Tom.

“Surely,” Gilbert repeats after him mockingly. “I’m not the only one who noticed. At least a few people are looking at you constantly. Dumbledore for one. That Myrtle girl for another one, little mudblood. And some others.” propped up on his elbows, Gilbert follows people in the room with his eyes. He does nothing to obscure it and in turn, they all look away from him whenever they notice his stare.

Tom exhales and loosens his grip around his quill. It would be in bad taste to break it. “Professor doesn’t look at me though, Rosier?”

The teen laughs quietly at that. They hear the first words of the lesson and Gilbert ducks his head and whispers his answer, “Sometimes he does, Tom, but not like that. He’d give you this shrewd look of his and smile if you raise your eyes to him.”

It makes him ache with something unknown.  _ What with everything he has done to me _ , thinks Tom. His stomach clenches painfully at that and he decides it was quite enough of Potter for today.


	4. Growth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to thank @winking_peas for help with some parts of this chapter!
> 
> I am adding some tags as I write. Did I say in the beginning it's a family friendly story? We are getting some smut in this chapter.

#  ** Chapter 4 **

Tom sits with a book on his lap, curtains around his bed drawn and stuck together with a charm. Ms. Cole tended to warn the boys about the sin of Onan but he is merely looking at the pictures and his sweaty palms are far away from his sex, clenched firmly on his thighs.

It’s detailed. He can see tears glistening in the eyes of a dark-skinned witch that is having a mouthful of cock, wet lips stretched taut around it. The wizard she pleasures is standing with his robe open, his head tilted back and mouth open. He grasps the woman by her curly hair to pull her closer, forcing himself deeper into her throat. Tom sucks on his fingers, tasting salt and dust.

He looks at the man’s face and thinks his eyes are green. He blushes as he feels the wet slide of his tongue around his fingers, imagining them to be a cock. He wants his skull to be earnestly fucked as the witch’s in the picture.

Tom pushes his fingers deeper until he chokes, saliva dripping from his chin. He shakes - from pleasure and shame. He carefully wipes his fingers on the covers and closes the book, willing himself to stop. His pillow is a good place to hide it, he decides. Blood still rushing in his ears, Tom curls under his covers and tries to calm down. 

With eyes squeezed shut and erection pressed against the mattress, he tries to make his sin a little lighter. Is fucking someone’s mouth better than offering his own, being used for others pleasure? 

He tries to turn this fantasy around to no avail. With eyes closed he sees professor Potter towering above him with his essay in hand.

“That’s a poor work, Riddle. You understand that I can’t give you anything better than  _ dreadful _ ,” he says. His lips curl in a dissatisfied scowl.

“That’s impossible,” protests Tom. “I put much effort into this assignment!”

“Then,” drones Potter, “maybe defense is not your strongest forte.” Yew wand slips from Tom’s pocket into Potter's hand.

“I can’t fail this subject, professor. Is there a way for me to have a better grade? Surely my wandwork must be better than my essay.” He looks at his teacher with pleading eyes. 

Potter appraises him coldly. “Ask for help one of your more talented friends, if you want a better grade from your next assignment,” he suggests cruelly. Then his eyes seem to concentrate on Tom, checking him out. “There may be one way to make this D into A though. You are a pretty boy, Riddle, don’t you think?”

It makes him flush and bite his lips. He doesn’t protest at these words. He wants to be considered attractive.

Potter licks his lips, a greedy look on his face. “Don’t look at me like that, Riddle, you are a dirty thing, I know. Now, get to your knees and present me that wandwork that is supposed to be better than this piss-poor essay.”

He slides slowly to the floor, his bed creaking as his humps the mattress. He grasps Potter’s robes and unbuttons them with trembling fingers. 

“Very good,” praises Potter and pulls Tom flush against his crotch.

Tom inhales deeply the smell of musk and parts his lips to mouth the shape of man’s cock through the material of his pants. It becomes moist from his breath and lips. Eagerly he reaches to bare the man, to have his first real taste.

“Eager boy, aren’t you?” mocks Potter in his fantasy and Tom spills with a quiet gasp.

He spells his release away when it’s still warm and sticky against his skin. It feels sinful to feel relaxed, relieved when it was an image of another man that made him climax.

xxx

Tom spends his evenings engrossed in books, meticulously taking notes on every technique he encounters in his study.

_ Perception of events tends to dictate human actions, therefore altering it may lead to individuals behaving in the desired way. It’s the most effective and the most finicky way of enacting a long term control over another human. It’s advisable for a caster to prepare a probable excuse for the subject’s change of attitude. _

“Are you searching for anything specific?” asks Gilbert.

Tom lifts his head and blinks. Piles of books surround him. “It’s merely a side project, a curiosity,” he says slowly.

“So you don’t need my help.”

“No, I don’t think so.” Tom combs back his hair with his hands. He thinks about potion Slughorn offered to Potter. Maybe it would help him stop strands of his hair from falling on his forehead whenever he sits hunched over parchment. “Thank you,” he adds.

“Can I have a look at this one anyway? You are not reading it at the moment.”

“Sure, help yourself,” allows Tom absentmindedly and Gilbert reaches to grab the book. 

Then Tom makes his decision and tells his friend in a hushed whisper about his research. He omits the deal with Potter. “Have you ever heard about that?” he asks when he is finished with his explanation.

“No one boasts about such things, it’s highly illegal to use them.” It’s a careful cautioning, Tom recognizes easily. “I may have heard once or twice about people using it,” allows Gilbert.

“Did it go unnoticed?” asks Tom. The curiosity is burning. He is ready to try, to turn his wand at someone and try his hand at that art.

“Yes, it usually does.” Gilbert scowls with unease. He glances at Tom with his usual perceptiveness. “Some objects can… carry a curses like these. It’s highly unusual through.”

“Subjects like what?” Tom raises his eyebrows.

Gilberts taps his fingers against the desk. “Mirrors. Wedding bands.” And then Tom understands. He is poor at comforting people but he shortly squeezes his friend’s shoulder anyway. “They were given to unwilling brides and grooms in the past.”

“I would be interested in that spellwork, if I am allowed to see them.”

Gilbert shakes his head. “They are deep in the family vault, I think.”

"To remove the spells or reproduce them, Gilbert."

xxx

It’s Tom’s last detention with Potter. Scrubbing the floors is another menial task assigned to him. He is on his knees, trying not to dirty his robe as he works with a brush in hand and a bowl of soapy water nearby. For some reason, Potter stays with him to supervise.

Tom doesn’t bring up the topic of their experiment as he is unwilling to mention his lack of success. A failure.

The man sits on the edge of the desk with his legs crossed. He looks at his nails with disinterest. “What are you going to do after Hogwarts, Riddle?” he asks.

Tom considers his question. He can’t look at the professor if he is to continue his task. He pushes the brush into the darkening water as he answers, “I wish to travel, professor.” He makes a show of scrubbing the floor with fake dedication. “However I will have to gather funds for that before I can leave Britain.”

Potter hums. “Aren’t you an heir, Riddle?”

Tom glances at him just in time to catch a pointed look at his hand. A ring with band make from darkened silver and big black stone sits on his finger.  _ That _ , he understands, is what Potter means. “Not to any fortune, professor.”

Potter nods. “But you are an heir to the family,” he says.

“They never wanted me.” The words spill unbidden and Tom clenches his jaw. His eyes flash in anger but all he can do is to scrub the floor harsher.

“But someone must have given you the ring you are wearing,” says Potter in measured tone after a while has passed. He is no longer inspecting his nails. Instead, his attention is focused solely on Tom. 

In any other circumstances, the boy would relish that. 

Tom forces himself to relax, to appear calm when inside he rages at the bare mention of his… blood relatives. “It’s a Gaunt ring,” he whispers. He looks at Potter to make sure the professor knows how personal it is. Tom carries out not gazing away from man’s eyes for a moment, “I accessed the Gringott vault at my birthday as my blood allows me. The ring you see is the only legacy I got.”

“What happened to the rest?”

“It was squandered,” spits Tom bitterly. “Wasted. There is nothing I can claim and the name Gaunt brings now more shame than respect.”

“And yet you wear the ring, Riddle,” says Potter lowly. “What about Riddles? They gave you name - is it any better?”

His face is lifeless, frozen into the expression of neutrality when his heart wants to escape his rips and each pump of blood resounds in his ears. They wanted to shot him like a dog, he remembers with tremor. He forces his lungs to work as they suddenly seem unwilling. 

“It’s not a big secret, professor, that I am an orphan.” He licks his chapped lips. He doesn't want anyone to know and yet there must be some truth in his words, he decides, otherwise the man might pick on the lie. “They are muggle and rich as far as I know,” he adds, “and never wanted anything to do with me.”

Potter doesn’t say anything to that, when Tom tries to swallow the misery, the bitterness down. He lost his anger towards them the moment they lied dead on manor's floor, dinner unfinished, bottle of wine freshly opened. The man simply stares at him and instead of pity, there is judgment in his eyes.

It’s almost comforting, he thinks, unclenching his fist. He wishes to be judged for his deeds - not for being unwanted, meager orphan from London slums. The mere thought causes disgust to curl in his stomach.

“You are able to make a name for yourself,” says Potter finally.

Nothing more is left to be said. Tom jerkily nods and gets back to work. He turns away from the professor to hide his scowl and knitted brow. He is Lord Voldemort and it doesn’t matter where did he come from. He will be Lord Voldemort, Lord of them all.

Soon his detention is finished. Potter stops him before he can leave the room.

“For whatever it’s worth, I don’t think it was personal. They didn’t want a kid, there is nothing wrong with  _ you _ .” This time his words are uncharacteristically soft. 

Tom ignores the feeling of how not right it is to hear something like that from this harsh man. “Thank you, professor. Though, I have already made peace with my circumstances.”

xxx

It’s unrecognized uneasiness that wakes Tom. He twists in his sheets, blindly feeling for his wand. He finds it hidden under his pillow. “Tempus,” he whispers as he holds it in a loose grip. The light pains his eyes for a short moment before it dims to almost nothing, only the tip of his wand glowing.

His eyelids and lips stick together from sleep. Tom draws his bed curtains open and leaves the dark dorm for the bathroom, where he opens the tap and proceeds to put his head under a stream of cold water. He stays like that until the feeling of being overheated and drowsy recedes. 

He starts his day early, ignoring his oddly swollen tongue, seemingly filling all of his mouth.

Clarence doesn’t fail to point out that, “You weren’t in the dorm in the morning” as he plates some more bacon and eggs on his platter. Gilbert slurps his juice and Clarence treats Tom’s silence like an answer. “I don’t agree with you, my friend, we should bring it up, if our Head Boy is overworking himself.” Then Clarence turns again to Tom and asks, “So tell me, what got you out of bed so early?” Then he takes a big bite and Tom knows he is saved from answering as long as the boy chews.

He raises his eyebrows and puts his cup of coffee away. “Why, are you worried about me?” he asks haughtily. Gilbert continues to look at him with bleary eyes and Tom only hopes his own don’t look that bad. “I am afraid we need to go to class now, Clarence. You don’t want to be late so if I were you, I would leave that pile of food and get up.”

Tom does as he said, straightening his robes, as Clarence makes an indignant expression but is unable to ask them to wait for him with his mouth stuffed full. Gilbert simply follows.

He can’t sleep and he doesn’t see Potter outside class any longer. It’s an unreasonable want, he thinks, and yet, it frustrates him. His mind is repeatedly pulled back to words uttered over two weeks ago. Bitterness he feels acts like a slow poison, tainting his thoughts. _ I know just as well as him what a delinquent you are, Riddle _ .

“You wanted to speak with me, Tom? It’s just the two of us now,” says Dumbledore as door slams closed after the last student leaves the class. Apart from Tom, that is.

Tom looks up. He’s been pretending to be unable to fit transfiguration notes into his bag properly. “Actually,” he hesitates and his lips twitch as they do whenever he is making a decision, “I do, sir. I hoped to ask you something, if I may be so bold.”

“Is it related to the class, my boy?,” asks Dumbledore whilst stroking his long, auburn beard, with his hand resting on his elbow. Tom notices how frail they look with heavy rings adorning a few of his fingers. “You could have asked in front of the class for your classmates to benefit.”

“It’s something else, sir,” assures Tom. “However, I wouldn’t like to offend you with my impudence, professor.”

“Personal question then.” Dumbledore nods. “You are right to be cautious of course. We should tread carefully, where private matters are involved, as some of them should remain unmentioned.” He twists a strand of his hair around a finger. “I can promise you, Tom, that I will not take offense at your question. Go ahead and ask me.”

Some nervousness in Tom makes his spine stiffen and his shoulders become set back. He swallows and the question that was eating him from the inside these past days, rolls easily enough from his tongue, “Have you told something about me to Professor Potter, sir?”

Dumbledore sighs, “Oh my boy.” He seems to instantly know  _ what  _ he would tell about Tom.

“So you did,” accuses Tom coldly. “You told him that I am  _ bad _ ; it is what you think about me, isn’t it?”

Dumbledore lifts his hand to stop him from saying more. It makes Tom only angrier, his face twisting into a fierce scowl. 

“I would never!” argues Dumbledore. “I would never tell what I have seen that day, when I first met you, Tom, not to anyone who didn’t have a chance yet to make their own judgment of your character.”

“You told him,” repeats Tom firmly.

“Should I lie to him, Tom?” questions Dumbledore.

Tom clenches his fists. “It would be enough if you didn't volunteer any information.”

“I understand that you are angry with me, Tom,” says Dumbledore, bowing his head. “I have seen you vulnerable and judged you guilty of these crimes… That you in truth  _ did  _ commit, am I wrong, my boy?” he asks the fuming Tom. With a sigh Dumbledore carries on, “I instructed you to behave and I did that in good faith. If you reject all else that I say, please, believe my intentions were right. I should have informed my colleagues that you were a thief and a bully, using your magic to harm other children”, he says and his expression hardens.

“You still see me that way, don’t you, sir?” asks Tom. His eyes are blazing with anger when his face seems superficially calm, fists unclenched.

“It saddens me greatly, Tom. I can forgive but never forget. Should you prove yourself to be unworthy of the second chance, the blame would be mine. It’s what I have done for you, Tom, I have given you a chance to start anew and thankfully you have proven to be a dedicated student at least.”

“I have to ask then, what crime I did commit,” says Tom slowly, “because surely you wouldn’t put me in such a bad light for no reason?”. Tom sneers.

“Professor Potter was concerned about you, Tom,” says Dumbledore. “His concerns weren’t unfounded and I decided to share with him what little did I know.” He sighs. Guilt ages him, a deep frown marring his face. “I did it to help you, Tom. I believe that professor Potter may be able to guide you if you ever need that. I can see easily enough that you would never ask for my help and it weighs down on me that you would be left to your own fortune.”

“Of course I would ask, sir. There simply never was a need to bother you specifically when so many professors can aid me.”

“I am sure you are right, my boy.”

“Well, thank you for your concern, sir,” says Tom and he is glad that his lips can form words so insincere. “I would hate to take more of your time.” He gives Dumbledore a pleasant smile and leaves as soon as he is excused.

“Take care, Tom,” says Dumbledore.

xxx

Tom sits in the Great Hall with his back turned to the teacher’s table. He suppresses the urge to twist his neck to observe Potter. Tom suspects the man would ask pretty quickly what his issue was and that simply wouldn’t do to explain his curiosity.

He can look directly at the man only during Defence Against the Dark Arts classes. Potter sets in the classroom a construction similar to a dollhouse. It’s big enough for them to enter and big as a real house once they are inside.

“You go inside, cast  _ Homenum Revelio  _ and report to me how many people you found,” instructs Potter before they start. They work in two groups. An unknown number of people from one group goes inside and only then students from another group are allowed to cast a charm. “Your response should be different when you detect one burglar than when five sorcerers are waiting for you. To have that information you have to master this spell well.”

Tom tries and succeeds. “Good,” praises him Potter curtly and that’s it. Tom hides his disappointment and tries to come up with questions on the topic to actually speak with Potter. All the while he looks for an excuse to warrant a private talk in man’s office.

One day instead of instantly settling in his usual place in the Great Hall, Tom takes a moment to think. It’s early and Slytherin’s table is mostly unoccupied. He looks around, he looks at the teacher’s table and then shamelessly chooses a place that will allow him to look at the Potter during meals.

With a smirk he serves himself hearty breakfast, his spirits lifted and eyes positively sparkling. Students slowly fill in.

“You must have forgotten where your place is,” says derisively Araminta Black as soon as she sees him. The witch scrunches her nose when she looks at him. Tom is strongly reminded that as most Blacks she considers his blood to be a dirty sludge and his person - undeserving of attending Hogwarts.

“And where that is, Araminta?” he asks blankly and takes a bite of his toast.

“On the opposite side of the table, of course, where you usually sit!”

He shrugs and gives her his most suave smile. “I hope you can forgive me for that, Araminta. I simply decided today that I like this seat better.” And he took it knowing perfectly well, she will have to find herself another place.

The witch surprises him when she simply sits next to him. “I will consider that,” Araminta drawls. With a flick of her wand, she wills the jug to pour her a glass of the pumpkin juice, the bacon to jump into her plate and butter to spread itself on her toast. “So, who are you taking to Slughorn’s party?” she asks in a low voice, keeping eyes on her food.

Tom needs a moment to consider the question and his forehead creases. “A party?”, he repeats slowly.

Only then she turns her head to him, eyes widening in shock. “You don’t know!” she exclaims.

Tom scowls at her. “Is there anything to know?”

She covers her mouth with her hands. “You weren’t invited!” she cries out and then she turns to Gilbert who slides into the seat opposite of them, “Did you hear? Our Head Boy, star student was shunned by Slughorn!”

Gilbert takes that information slowly as he usually does in the mornings. There are dark rings under his eyes and his lifeless gaze doesn’t move away from the girl for long seconds. “No,” he says finally.

Clarence is not much behind him. “What is the matter?” he asks eagerly and leans over the table to grasp their hands in greeting. Tom left the dormitory before any of his friends had a chance to exchange good morning with him.

“Slughorn didn’t invite Tom to the party,” says Araminta in a theatrical whisper.

Clarence gives him an odd look. “Ouch! That's not like him at all. Are you sure he is not waiting for the perfect moment or something?” He rubs his nose and his face scrunches in unease.

Tom’s mood is significantly dampened. Potter is still not present to be looked at for Tom’s pleasure and Slughorn acts on his suspicions. 

“He told  _ me  _ over a week ago. I was sure Tom can introduce to us his date and instead… we hear that!”

There is a ring with black stone glinting weakly on his finger in the bright morning light. Everyone sees it as Tom keeps a goblet next to his mouth. Ugly Gaunt ring with half of his miserable soul hidden inside. He would hide it deep in the Hogwarts’ bowels but taking it off makes him almost double in pain and anguish every time he tries.

Araminta is not finished with him. “Tell me, Tom, what have you done to lose favor? You must have said something foul where he could hear you. I want to know what it was.” She leans closer to him, grasping him by the shoulder. It’s a wonder his tainted blood doesn’t make her skin crawl. 

He filled the pages of his diary with diagrams and calculations, considering splitting his souls into seven pieces. Then in a fit of stupidity, he asked Slughorn for his opinion.

“I am afraid I don’t know how I offended him,” he lies easily. His voice is steady, regretful and eyes calm. He knows very well how he earned Slughorn scrutiny - made the man doubt giving him any privileges was a good idea.

Araminta shakes her head, making her blonde hair sway.

“I don’t believe you one bit,” she says with confidence and Tom lying deserves much appreciation than that because it’s expertly. “I never thought you a fool but what can I call you when you offend Slughorn? He would have helped you a great deal after Hogwarts.”

Gilbert is slowly coming awake and so he comments, “I don’t think he actively dislikes Tom, we would have noticed.”

Clarence nods his head. “Yes, he is merely avoiding you altogether, Tom!”

It’s unfortunate but now when the man is wary of him it’s not an easy feat to regain his favor. There is no use to talk any longer about his misfortune with purebloods who won’t share his struggle of securing a job or an apprenticeship. “How did you get invited, Araminta?” he asks instead.

“Me?” she repeats sweetly. “What an odd question, I was invited because my uncle is coming. And because Slughorn appreciates me, of course.”

“That’s good to hear,” he says dishonestly. “Do you have a date already? You were curious about mine.”

She makes a face. “They are dreadful,” whispers Araminta. “I hoped you could accompany me as I couldn’t find anyone appropriate but it’s not a good idea when Slughorn doesn’t want to see you.” She smoothes down her robe as she speaks.

Tom raises his eyebrows. “I hope you will find someone else then.”

xxx

He goes to the Ravenclaw-Hufflepuff Quidditch match to watch Potter. He strains his eyes to look at the man cheering across the pitch and his friends say nothing about that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I consider it a transition chapter.   
> Where did Tom get such an pornographic book? Room of Hidden Things is my guess.


	5. The crystal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Slytherins get drunk, Slughorn is suspicious and Tom brings more worries to professor Potter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thank you to @winking_peas! 
> 
> Important notice: there is a scene of heterosexual sex in this chapter. I personally consider it one of the stepping stones in the story, but if you feel uncomfortable with it - skip it and you want miss all that much. I am not introducing another pairing than HP/TMR. Also that is only het scene in the fic.

#  ** Chapter 5 **

They celebrate Ravenclaw victory in the Slytherin Common Room and because Tom attended the match with his peers, he is obligated to party with them. 

“Who is the person you would like to fuck the most?” slurs Clarence after an empty firewisky bottle stops with its neck pointing at Tom. They drank it dry before the game was even started and one more after.

“I’ll drink for this one,” answers Tom with an apologetic smile. He lifts his glass in a mock toast.

“Oh, don’t be like that!” cries out Clarence. “I wanted to know this one!”

Gilbert laughs, “I believed you wanted to get him drunk, my friend?”.

“Oh.” Clarence makes big eyes and sways. A girl next to him - Araminta Black - pushes him away, not wanting him to fall onto her lap. “I did. Drink that, Tom, and spill your secrets to us!”.

Tom downs his glass with a mocking grin. He spins the bottle then. His fellow Slytherins jeer when it slows down, most of them properly drunk. In the end it ends directed at their beater. “So, Joseph, what is the most embarrassing thing you have said in front of a girl?” asks Tom because a question of this kind is expected.

Joseph blushes and stutters his reply with eyes cast downwards in shame. Tom waits only until he is finished and excuses himself. 

As he leaves the Common Room, he sways a little. Tiredness and alcohol together are making everything slightly blurry. He spent enough time with his housemates for the day and now he wishes for solitude. They won't miss him during their drunken celebration.

He enters a bathroom and heads to the mirror. His reflection looks wrecked. He narrows his eyes at the sight of dark circles and scarlet blush on his cheeks. With a wry twist of his lips, he wonders how could he report that the potion makes him sleepless and aroused. It seems triggered by… Nothing in particular. 

With a sigh, he unbuttons his robe and unzips his slacks. He grips his hard prick through the thin cotton of his pants, squeezing his eyes shut. It’s properly painful now after waiting for a half-day for arousal to simply go away and he thinks that no one sober will join him in the toilet.

One hand resting on the wall, he pushed his pants down, baring himself. Cool air hits his overheated flesh. He covers himself with his palm quickly. He pants softly with his mouth open as he jerks himself off, head hanging low and his hair falling on his forehead with each abrupt motion of his hand.

There is a faint clicking of the door being shut and he hears, “Who would have thought the Head Boy would be so naughty.” Tom turns to see Araminta, hands resting on her hips. “Caught in the dirty bathroom wanking,” she carries on with a smirk. 

“It’s boy’s loo, Araminta, so I am not sure what you came here for,” he says snidely and waits half-turned for her to leave.

“I came here looking for you, Tom,” she says and approaches him in measured steps, purposefully. 

“You found me,” agrees Tom. “However there are no matters that I am going to discuss with you right now, so be so kind and leave.”

She clicks her tongue and says, “Who said anything about discussing.” Araminta closes the distance between them and grabs him by his arms. She turns him and with an unexpected strength she slams his body into the wall.

Tom curses as she pushes her thigh between his legs. The moment it makes contact he reflexively bucks his hips. “Care to tell me what you're doin’,” he gasps. 

Before he can gather his wits, Araminta slams her lips into his and Tom melts against cold tiles. The girl pushes her tongue into his mouth, tasting him, it feels like that. And he tastes her, the different flavours of high percentage drinks on their tongues. Half-shocked and not exactly opposed Tom lets her positively devour his mouth. He grinds against her leg, material of her sheer stockings dragging pleasantly against the head of his cock.

Araminta moves away, letting him catch a breath. He takes this chance to get some words out, “You aren’t the one I want to fuck the most.” He sounds breathless, raspy and there is no hiding how aroused he is by her anyway.

The girl simply laughs loudly, not even trying to tone it down like a lady like her should. “Of course I know that, Tom! Don’t think me daft.”

Tom calms his breath, aiming to sound collected “I still can’t imagine what you think you are doing with me,” he says and takes another moment to look at her. Araminta is a beauty, almost as tall as himself. She wears a full-length navy dress today with a slit that reaches her hips and a thick white sash rests on her thin waist. Tom sees the glistening of pre-ejaculate he already smeared on her leg. “A Black surely should be at least at arm's length from those of dirty blood.”  _ And much further away from the men's restroom filled with a stench of urine, _ he thinks.

She just shakes her head as if amused by his antics. “You would think so,” she says and kisses him deeply again. Then she moves to his neck, to his ear, marring his skin with love bites he will have to heal later. “Lift my dress, you filthy boy,” she whispers and her hot breath tickles the shell of his ear, “I came here to fuck you.”

Her eyes are cold and daring. Tom follows her command. “Offering me a hole to fuck? How gracious of you,” he remarks snidely and pushes his fingers into her knickers. It's futile to refuse when he stands there bared and his cock jerks at her demands. “You should take them off," he says as he touches her, pleased at her mien, pleased to feel hot, wet flesh.

They untangle and she pushes them down without taking her heels off. “Well, do you have me how you like it?” she asks, raising her eyebrows. 

“I suppose,” he says pulling her closer, “that’s good enough.” He kisses her. It’s wet and hungry and his hands are mapping her flesh as he squeezes her closer to his body. His mind is muddled anyway - there is no place left to wonder how he is faring. He grabs her because he wants to and she allows him.

They rut against one another until Araminta loses her patience. She knows. “Why are you so fucking inexperienced,” she says as she leans against a urinal. She guides him closer, “Lift my leg,” she demands. 

He does, taking it under her knee and forcing her to widen her thighs.

She looks at him and reaches for his cock. He likes the feeling of her hand as she guides him to slip inside of her. It’s not for him though, the same as he is not doing it for her. “Now, it’s your turn, filthy boy,” she whispers lowly.

Tom doesn't know why, but it works for him. Makes him want to do exactly as she says. And he only wishes she could curb all commentary apart from this.

So he does what she wants - what he wants. Pushes himself inside, loving the feeling of a hot and tight hole around his dick, snapping his hips in irregular rhythm and forcing small noises out of the girl. He supports her, so she doesn’t fall, embracing her. He pants harshly into her hair. It smells nice, he thinks, and he tries to imagine he feels another smell altogether.

He wishes to smell rosewood and lemongrass with a hint of a male musk, for her hair to be short and dark. He is not sure whether he could lift Potter’s muscular thigh so easily - in his mind, he does so successfully. Tom sucks a sharp breath. He almost moans that name aloud but his hips stutter instead and he spills inside the girl. He gapes, dazed by an abrupt pleasure.

Relief floods him slowly and with that comes some amount of distaste. He attempts to untangle himself from her limbs. There is still some alcohol in his blood. What was that even for, he questions himself now that he no longer feels so horny. And at least it’s remarkably easier to slip out than slip in.

Araminta lifts her head and sizes him up. “At least finish me, you bastard,” she demands and it’s not half as commanding as it should, when she is sweaty and flustered.

Tom pleasures her until she is satisfied. Then he goes to take a piss, thinking about such shared affairs taking longer than they should. He gladly washes his hands and his cock after the intercourse.

“It’s acceptable only as long as the word doesn’t leave this loo,” she says, pulling her knickers up.

Tom makes more foam in his palms with the soap, not at all bothered. “It's not like I am going to tell on you, Araminta,” he says. “You can be loose with me all you want,” he gives her one-sided shrug, “without me sullying your reputation.” 

He would like to be spiteful towards her for no reason other than his inward conflict. He is going to sit with her at breakfast and share his notes. He stays silent, trying not to think about blackmailing her with what they did.

He can see her reflection nodding curtly and with a short “Good,” she leaves. Tom takes a moment longer to put himself together. He splashes his face with cold water and is glad to see his flush waning.

He imagines he can still smell rosewood and musk instead of a heavy, flowery perfume. Then he forces himself to open his eyes and head to the dorm, where on his nightstand table he can make some notes.

He takes a piece of parchment. The words “Self Observation” are scrawled in elegant writing at the top. A blush rises to his cheekbones when he forces himself to write down “arousal” next to “sleeplessness” right under said title. The thought of submitting a paper with such observations makes him uncomfortable.  _ It can’t be connected to the potion _ , he thinks, trying to calm himself. He will find out what he was dosed with and mention only significant symptoms.

Then he proceeds to check the potions he’d listed once again. It’s long and detailed as he took his time to write down all the little pieces of information that would help him differentiate between them. At this point, he is inclined to believe that some kind of insomniac potion was leading him to insanity.

It’s long after curfew, but he already knows what he can say if anyone asks for his reason to be not in bed already.

He knocks and waits. He can only hear the crashing of moving books and papers. He sighs and tries once again. His eyelids are heavy and his hands are cold.  _ Maybe it’s too late _ , he thinks.

“Riddle,” says Potter, opening the door to his office, “I’m glad you waited a moment, I needed to finish some things first in my rooms.” He opens the door wider and moves out of the way to invite Tom inside. “What do you need at this hour?”

Tom slips inside, just a breath away from Potter. He wills his face to be calm as he inhales and the smell of cologne fills him with puzzling giddiness. “How did you hear the knocking in your rooms, sir?” Tom raises his eyebrows.

“I wouldn’t,” says Potter, ”there’s a charm on the door that informs me when anyone is knocking.” He takes a seat and Tom follows his lead, pulling the chair from the corner of the room. “Do you want some tea, Riddle?”

Tom looks at him with mild surprise at the sudden hospitality. He’s going to milk it for what it’s worth though. “I would like that, thank you.”

“Maybe something calming, it's a late hour,” says the professor, and two steaming cups appear on his desk with some sweet biscuits laid on the side plate. 

“It may help me,” says Tom carefully and he moves the cup closer to himself. “You never said I couldn’t ask for your advice with my assignment, sir. Can we talk about it?”, he asks. Tentative tendrils of hope curl at the bottom of his stomach. Tom forces himself to sip the hot beverage to calm it.

Potter smiles wryly. “We can,” he agrees easily. “but don’t expect me to simply tell you. What would be fun about it then?”

Riddle sits there sullen, and once again tries to will words to enter his mouth. He forgets them all in a blink of an eye. It’s an effect of the sleep deprivation he became well acquainted with over the last few days. And when he closes his eyes, images of Potter haunt him.

“I can’t sleep,” he says faintly. Tom observes keenly as Potter adds two cubes of sugar to his tea and stirs, clattering the spoon against the walls of the dainty cup.

“So something is troubling you?”, questions Potter. “It’s your NEWT year… Surely you’re under a lot of pressure to succeed.” He takes a sip of his tea and meets Tom’s eyes. “As a professor, I should tell you to try your best, but as an adult man… Don’t overwork yourself, Riddle. It’s not the end of the world. And,” he smiles mischievously, “you can be a little sly and plan to retake exams that don’t lie well with you for that year.”

As he speaks, Tom can’t keep his eyes from the door behind Potter’s back - the door leading to his private rooms.  _ Why won’t you call me Tom _ , he thinks. Instantly he crushes the thought down.

“I think it’s an effect of the potion, sir,” says Tom politely. “I have hardly slept a wink since I took it.” He looks down at his lap.

“Well,” says Potter. He seems hesitant, worried somehow, worrying his lip between his teeth. “What makes you unable to sleep, Riddle?”

Tom forces his shoulders to relax and exhales slowly. “I am restless, sir. I lie unable to sleep. I feel ill but I can’t get more than an hour or two of rest.”

Potter knits his brows. “Have you made notes as I asked you, Riddle?”

“Yes,” confirms Tom. “I don’t have them with me, though.”

Potter sighs and massages his temples. He looks weary. “Finish your tea and bring them, Riddle.”

“There may be some unnecessary annotations, sir,” he utters. “I should write it afresh so maybe I would be able to bring it tomorrow,” he tries.

“No,” says Potter firmly. “I need to see it all. You see, Riddle, insomnia is not one of the symptoms of this potion. If it was, you wouldn’t complain about that, let’s not say why. You will gain nothing by tricking, whatever it is.”

Tom sips his tea with a mask of calm, wondering what else should he say before leaving. He takes his time to study Potter in the warm light of an oil lamp. It softens the man’s features and Tom quietly admires an arch of his lips, the shadows cast by his eyelashes.

“Of course, sir. I will bring them right away.”

Tom knows something is amiss when he sees Slughorn in the Slytherin Common Room. The man turns his way, a handkerchief kept to his nose. “Oh, Tom,” he says, his voice nasally. The smell in the room is putrid, someone must have vomited there. “What were you doing outside of the common room?”

A school nurse is kneeling next to the table and something that was spilt on the floor. It soaks into the green carpet slowly. Tom can see a foot and makes a fair guess that someone is lying there unconscious. “Professor, what has happened here?” he asks instead of answering, colouring his voice with apprehension. He forces his face into that worried expression - knitting his brow and pouting a little.

“As you can see, Tom, some of your housemates require Madam Radebaugh’s attention,” states Slughorn sourly. He wears a bathrobe and Tom believes Slughorn was just roused from his bed. “But now, Tom, because you are Head Boy, you are supposed to establish order when all you kids are out of our sight. I can’t have you wandering around the castle, doing who knows what, when your friends party without a care!” 

Tom waits for the admonishment to reach its end with his hands clasped behind his back. “I am sorry to disappoint, professor,” he says. He turns the Gaunt ring on his finger and for the shortest moment, something flickers in the corner of his vision. “I would hate to make excuses, sir, but if I can explain myself…” He looks into man’s eyes and what he sees moves him to carry on, “Unfortunately, I had left the common room before anything non-statutory had begun here. There was some noise coming from the dungeon and I went to investigate who would be there after curfew.”

“Have you caught anyone, Tom?” asks Slughorn. He turns for a moment to the mediwitch, “How are they, Amanda?”

“I would leave them here as they are, Horace, if only to make them learn from this mistake,” she answers curtly.

Slughorn chuckles. “As if that would teach them anything! I would like to see them in my class tomorrow, Amanda, if you please!”

“I am afraid they escaped, sir,” says Tom, when the professor's attention is on him again.

“I see,” he sighs. “You were looking for them for a long time, weren’t you?” Slughorn asks casually, but Tom can see the slight twitch of his eye. 

Tom stops a wry twist of his lips. “Not so long, professor. I’ve spent some time speaking with Professor Potter, and in truth, there are some notes I had promised to bring him.”

Slughorn looks at him oddly and Tom simply blinks, keeping his expression open. Finally, Slughorn acquiesces, “I will have to have a word with Professor Potter, if you make a habit of bothering him at such hours.”

“I won’t. Thank you, sir,” says Tom with a polite bow of his head. He heads to his dorm following the trail of dark, sticky footsteps. It seems most of his classmates were either lucky or wise enough to leave before Slughorn had arrived. As he steps inside he sees his friends in their beds, Clarence’s curtains left wide open and Gilbert’s arm hanging from the edge of the mattress.

The notes are in the drawer where he’d left them. He unrolls them to look at them once again. Distaste and shame rise to the surface. He forces them down.

He clambers to the seventh floor. Potter’s office is open, faint light flooding the corridor. Tom stands at the doorway silently, observing his professor. Potter sits with his legs on the desk. A thick grimoire lies opened on some graphs. The man points his wand at the crystal held in his other hand and murmurs something. It’s repetitive, calming and Tom is reluctant to interrupt him.

The crystal pulses softly with color, dark-violet tainting its previously clear surface. It looks spoiled and Tom is enraptured.

Potter notices him and with a nod of his head invites him inside. “I have just cursed it as you have seen,” murmurs Potter quietly and with a wave of his wand he closes the door. “In a few minutes it will become clear again. Here,” Potter extends the hand with the object to amazed Tom, “you can touch it safely, Riddle.”

Tom takes it and turns it to see how its hard surfaces reflect the light. It looks like ink that’s receding, being washed from paper, he observes. “Is this for the class, sir? What does it do?”

“It’s for you, Riddle. Give me your notes while you play with that, I am going to browse them,” says Potter. 

Riddle very slowly extracts them from his pocket. He puts them on the desk. 

“Good,” nods Potter. “I could see the experiment was hard on you.” He takes his legs down from the desk and snatches up pieces of parchment. He pushes up his round glasses and starts reading.

Tom keeps his mind on the crystal. “Can I have a look at your book, sir? I am curious about the curse you put on the crystal.”

“Sure,” agrees Potter distractedly. His forehead is wrinkled and eyes firmly set on Tom’s notes.

Tom tries to read. Four overlapping hexafoils fill most of the space on the tome’s pages. He squints his eyes to read small symbols placed closely around the lines. He turns the book. And turns it again. He mouths the incantation that letters create when he puts them together in his mind.

“It’s very dumb curse,” says Potter. “it won’t let you sleep per se, but it will put you to sleep for an amount of time measured by the amount of magic I push into this crystal.”

Understanding shines in Tom’s eyes. “The curse needs to be fed,” he states and Potter nods.

“You are a bright student, Riddle,” he says lowly, “especially when it comes to the dark arts. Not that I fault you for that.” Then, he takes the book and puts it into his drawer, and the blush that has risen on Tom’s cheeks goes unnoticed. “Actually, you can do it yourself, Riddle, when you are in bed and ready to sleep. I don’t want to have you falling unconscious in the middle of the corridor.”

“I am not sure I can do it without proper demonstration.” Tom looks at the crystal - now completely transparent, he can see his palm through it. “Wouldn’t it be easier to dose me with a dreamless sleep potion?”

Potter shrugs. “You can’t be relying on potions forever and I am not sure how it would react with the one already in your blood. It’s a handy little method that I adjusted for my purposes.” Then he messes his hair in thought. “Riddle, I read your notes,” he starts but Tom interrupts him.

“I know some of them shouldn’t be there.”

Potter knits his brows, “Oh, that’s not right.” He takes Tom’s notes to quickly check them. “You are doing very well, Riddle, all of them are important. And now, what I was going to say, I see some side effects that are concerning.” Potter looks Tom into the eye. “We can solve the issue of sleeplessness, but if the swelling in your mouth gets worse you may find yourself in the hospital wing.”

It makes Tom scrunch his nose, he doesn’t want to think about his symptoms. “Could you demonstrate to me how to use the crystal, sir?” he asks.

“It’s indeed quite late, isn’t it?” says Potter and Tom passes the crystal to him.

Potter lifts his wand and Tom feels like he is plummeting down to the depths of the Earth, when the hard wooden chair transforms into a comfortable armchair directly under him and matter unexpectedly yields under his weight. “Oh!” he gasps.

“The curse will want to be fed,” begins Potter, “so it will be enough if you concentrate on feeling of how it tries to gnaw on your magic and let it flow freely.” He closes his eyes for a moment. There is no visible sign of magic happening. Then he hands the crystal to Tom.

He grasps it firmly in his hand and he just falls asleep without a single struggle. He doesn’t see how the artefact darkens as the curse sets off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think Tom was kind of shocked by his sudden loss of virginity. :lenny: Honestly, this scene feels awkward to me but then drunken virgin sex tends to be like that so maybe that is a right effect. Lets console ourselves with professor Potter taking care of Tom at the end...


	6. Potter's chambers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 6th in which Potter must take matters into his own hands.

Araminta slumps with a weary sigh in the armchair next to Tom. With a scowl firmly fixed on her lips she rubs her forehead. A lone rose is sticking out of her purse that she has thrown on the floor nearby.

“Did you find your date?” asks Tom curiously. “I can see you got a flower.”

She plucks it and holds on their eye level. “I was gifted it, yes,” she admits, staring disdainfully at the thing. “It’s a poor compensation for being forced to endure Kingsley’s company.” She crunches the flower in her fist, manicured nails piercing petals and clawing at the stem. When she opens her palm, only ashes are left to rain on her dress.

“I don’t dare to guess what he has said to make you so angry,” says Tom in a measured voice. The book he has been reading rests now on his lap.

Araminta turns to him. “They are dreadful, Tom. Come with me to the party, I don’t care about Slughorn giving you a cold shoulder. You will look handsome next to me, bring me a few drinks and talk with people who can recognise you in a few months and offer you a comfy job.”

He considers her offer with his eyes cast away, observing the fire. “It’s tomorrow, isn’t it?”

She nods. “I can help with your robes,” she offers. Her nose is scrunched up when she adds, “I suppose you may not have anything adequate.”

Tom lets her malice slide easily. It is nothing compared to epithets directed his way in the beginning. The girl is being as moderate as she could be, he knows to expect nothing more. “I am afraid I can’t accompany you, Araminta. Not only Slughorn doesn’t want me there but I am feeling unwell.”

The girl surveys him - his pale face, dark rings under his eyes. “Maybe you look a bit sick,” she admits with pursed lips. “But who I am supposed to go with then?”

“There must be someone passable.” He can’t believe there is not even one guy that Araminta can consider worthy. “Have you considered someone younger?”

She scowls at him and flicks her long, blonde hair over her shoulder. “I did! Do it as a favour to me, Tom, if you won’t have it any other way. Surely I can help you with something. Or do something pleasant to you, if you’d like,” she offers with a sly smile curling her painted lips.

Their encounter remained unmentioned until now. She is more than nice to look at and yet Tom wouldn’t consider asking her out. He is slightly tempted. Where else he can get easy sexual relief without all the hustle and risk of indiscretion apart from his own hand? And still he doesn't want to. “I am honest, Araminta, I cannot go with you.” He looks around the Common Room and spots his two friends who moved to the corner of the room some time ago to play exploding snap without interrupting his reading. “What colour would you like your rose to be?”

“White,” she answers.

Tom closes his eyes and feels something akin to grains of sand under his eyelids. He concentrates on the image of the rose - with white, pearly petals curling around pinkish inside of the calyx, he tries to summon a memory of the smell. Only then he draws his wand and with a fluid motion conjures the rose.

“Gilbert,” he calls. When Gilbert lifts his head, Tom beckons him to come closer. “You don’t have any partner for the Slughorn's party, right?”

Gilbert sizes them up with his dark eyes. “I don’t,” he says and silently takes the rose from Tom when it's offered. He seems to understand what he is asked to do. “Would you like to accompany me to the party, Araminta? Your company would make it much better for me,” he asks with a bow and extends his hand to offer her the gift.

“Well, I would love to,” she answers pleasantly, eyeing the rose, Gilbert and Tom. She smells the flower with a pleased smile. 

The next day the pairs attend Slughorn’s party together, both of them handsome and very much pureblood. Tom thinks that Araminta’s uncle will be more pleased to see her with Gilbert than with an orphan of unknown breeding, supposedly a Muggleborn.

He stays in the dorm and masturbates thinking about Potter until his eyelids are too heavy and he can’t keep his eyes open any longer. Only then Tom reaches for the crystal gifted to him and knocks himself asleep.

He spends other nights engrossed in his research. Somewhere along this path, his neat handwriting deteriorates and his notes became blotched ink. When his alarm goes off in the mornings he feels mangled, his tongue filling all his mouth, breathing coming to him with difficulty. He should report to Potter how much worse he feels over the weeks. The concern of the man terminating their experiment halts him.

During the daytime he feels like drifting, words sometimes reaching his ears only after a long moment.

“Tom, my boy, stay after the lesson is finished, please.” Dumbledore looks at him with worry and Tom blinks himself awake.

“Yes, sir,” he says. He has been sitting slouched so he straightens his back. He must have dropped off, he realizes.

Dumbledore waits until everyone leaves the classroom. Only then he asks his questions.

“How are you faring, Tom? I have heard that professor Potter is guiding your research.”

Tom hides his irritation. He hasn’t seen Potter for a long while, having his fill of looking at the man only during Defence class. Why was the man speaking with Dumbledore of all people about him? “It’s going well, sir. It’s much more interesting than studying on my own as professor Potter knows the most curious details about his subject.”

“Ah, I am sure he does.” Dumbledore smiles, his eyes twinkling in glee. “And I hope you are not overworking yourself? I know how it is… I used to burn the candle at both ends before my NEWT exams. I wanted to prepare well and do my own projects at the same time. I worked myself into exhaustion.”

“I will make sure not to strain myself too much,” offers Tom with a thin-lipped smile.

xxx

Araminta sits with him one evening to show him photos from the party. On most of them, she is hand in hand with Gilbert, sometimes toasting with someone else. On others, there are important, well-known people she describes to him and then signs their names on the photos.

“Potter attended too?” he asks, lifting one of the photographs.

The man wears a different attire than his usual dark robe. The clothing is more fitting, with a flange and a belt in his middle. He toasts with another man and then gulps down his whiskey without a wince.

“He did. I don’t know who is the other man from the photo, though. I haven’t talked to him.”

Now Tom starts to regret refusing to accompany Araminta. He looks transfixed at the photo until the girl interrupts his thoughts.

“You can keep this one.” She moves the photos around. “I think there is another one too, but I can’t see it now.”

“Why would you think I may want to keep a photo of Potter?” Tom forces himself to ask. He wants to take it and to hide it, so she will no longer able to change her mind about giving him the picture.

She looks at him oddly. “I am neither dumb nor blind, Tom. Take it and don’t tire me with your excuses.”

“Thanks,” says Tom, swallowing down his frustration at her comment. It shouldn’t be easy to notice. _Do Gilbert and Clarence know?_ , he wonders.

They browse some more photos together. Instead, he thinks about putting this photo of Potter in his diary where he writes about his research and his dreams.

“I have a question,” says Tom in low voice, when they are nearing the end. “I would like to know if Potter assigns weekend detentions?”

Araminta purses her lip while she thinks.

“I suppose he does sometimes. As a prefect maybe I should ask some people about their detentions to check on them. Why would you like to know?”

“No reason,” he lies easily. He doesn't expect it to deceive the girl.

He obsessively thinks about the door in Potter’s office. It must lead to his rooms and there is nothing Tom wants more than to go there. Since he has noticed Potter’s absence at Saturdays, he started to consider acting on his need. The man wasn’t present for breakfast and lunch - the earliest Tom has seen him was dinner.

“I asked a few students about detentions with Potter,” says Araminta after a few days.

“And what did you get?” asks Tom, his interest instantly picked. He controls his voice.

She clicks her tongue. “I am a very caring prefect, don’t you agree, Tom? I did spend my evening making sure all our students are comfortable having detentions with Potter. That he wasn’t keeping anyone too long.”

“Yes, Araminta, you are our most caring, most charming prefect,” praises Tom.

“And most beautiful witch you know,” continues Araminta.

“You certainly have the most difficult personality among all girls I know,” he mocks instead, making the girl splutter in anger. “Not that I don’t appreciate you.”

“You’d better,” she snarls. “He never schedules detentions before 4 pm on Saturdays. That is what you wanted to know, right?”

It’s exactly what Tom hoped to hear. He allows himself to smile because she knows anyway and won't tell a soul. “I am glad to hear that.”

xxx

At Sundays Potter gets up late for breakfast so when Saturday morning comes, Tom waits. He can’t go there too early or he may meet Potter before the man leaves for whatever business he attends every weekend.

At 10 am Tom decides it’s time. He disillusions himself on the 6th floor. As he climbs the last staircase he can feel his heart beating wildly in his chest. A small, excited smile stretches his lips. His palms are clammy from giddiness but they don’t shake as he is sure of himself.

Potter betrayed that the charm informs him about visitors knocking. Tom hopes that his research proves true and entering the room will remain undetected.

Alohomora is not enough to unlock the door to Potter’s office. No. But the spell he found in restricted section - _banned in 1784 for being used in many burglaries_ \- does it. It was mentioned in old law book with crispy, yellowed pages. Tom needed to recover the wand movement to make it work by trial and error.

He slips inside silently and looks around in curiosity. There is no chair at all this time, he notes. Potter dislikes visitors in his office. It’s a working space with a big desk and few decorations. The mirror remains empty even when he stands in front of it.

The entrance to the rooms from his dreams is in front of him. With his hand shaking in excitement he reaches for the handle and slowly turns it. The door opens and the boy's smile widens until the teeth flashes.

The curtains are drawn and the room is dark. “ _Lumos_ ,” whispers Tom. It’s small, a bit cluttered space. There is a fireplace, a coffee table and some bookshelves. A massive trunk is covered with haphazardly thrown clothes - it reminds Tom of his dormitory with messy roommates. On another end of the room, he can see the door leading to the private bathroom as he suspects.

Books on the coffee table catch his eye. _Time paradoxes_ is the first one. As he flicks over it, he sees diagrams not at all dissimilar to the ones being a basis for sleep crystal curse. He reads the titles of the remaining tomes: _Cursed objects_ in intensively purple cover, small and innocuous _Forbidden tales of time travellers,_ unsettling _Reflecting on the Death Phenomena_. And while Tom wishes to read them all cover to cover, he barely touches them.

He tries to remember these titles as they are certainly not available in the library - not even in the restricted section. And coming into possession of the books like that is not a small feat, Tom knows. But why would a down-to-earth man as Potter be interested in time travel? Did he believe bending time possible?

The shelves are mostly empty - plants stand on many of them. Tom opens the wardrobe to see a handful of shirts in warm, dark colours, several robes he recognizes, a pair of ironed slack and a leather cloak. He hopes to see the man wearing it when the weather gets warmer.

He smells them - there is only a faint aroma of fabric softener reaching his nose. What a shame, he thinks.

But some things in this room are bound to smell of Potter, he realizes, as he turns towards the man’s bed. He kneels next to it, not daring to rustle the covers, and presses his face to the pillow. The inhales and it makes his head swim. There is no rosewood, instead he smells musk and warm, earthy undertone that he missed until now - what he suspects is the smell of Potter’s body. That is even better than his perfume.

He wishes to reach under the duvet to check, if there are any pyjamas. He forces himself not to. He kneels there a moment longer, heady arousal burning in his veins, making him bothered.

Soon it’s time to go. When he rises a faint glint catches his attention. Moments before he leaves. On the nightstand lies a golden ring. As Tom edges closer to it, he recognizes it to be Potter’s wedding band. He lifts it to his eye level and squints at the thing, momentarily fascinated.

The idea of Potter being taken by someone - by being a faithful husband maybe - is distasteful. And so Tom pockets it and leaves, not wishing the man to ever wear the thing again on his finger, faintly considering marriage rings with compulsion woven in that Gilbert mentioned for him.

“ _Homenum revelio_ ,” he casts to check whether the corridor is empty.

xxx

“Do you think he will look at your ugly mug? As if anything would help your face!” The girlish voice sounds from another end of the corridor.

“I don’t care what you think, Olive,” answers another girl in a tearful tone.

Tom scowls and quickens his steps. He has seen prefects ignoring bullying often enough to not expect anyone else to intervene. 

“I can see you everyday spending ages in front of the mirror, putting that thick make-up on,” taunts Hornby. “Is that us who you want to be pretty for, Pimpley? Or is that T…?”

Tom clears his throat then, stopping the girl half-word. He doesn’t care one bit about their fancies. “What is happening here?”

“Oh, Tom!” Hornby turns to him with a smile. Then she giggles. “Have you seen Myrtle’s new pair of eyes? She is going to need them to pass the year!”

He looks at the Myrtle girl. He doesn’t know her. She wears a pair of massive, red spectacles and her face is painted thickly. She looks at him with hopeful, starstruck eyes. Thick glass makes them seem unattractively small. 

“Is that so?” he asks.

Hornby shakes her head, her tails swinging wildly. “Of course!” She laughs. “I offered to help poor Myrtle many times but somehow she still fails her assignments. Now, she got a new pairs of eyes, I can only pray for improvement!” She lifts her hand to her chest as if to show how gracious she is. There on her robe shines a prefect badge.

“I can see you are a prefect,” he says calmly.

“Yes!” she agrees cheerfully. “Matters are in good hands!”

“I see,” he says squinting at her. He thinks about reporting Hornby’s behaviour as her bullying clearly went unnoticed until now. But another idea takes root in his head and it’s simply too tempting to let opportunity go. He turns to Myrtle. “What is your surname?” he asks.

She blinks quickly, shocked to be asked any question at all. “Warren. I am Myrtle Marren. 5th year Ravenclaw.”

He nods in acknowledgement. “Was Hornby helping you, Warren?” He raises his brows, letting his disbelief be known.

The girl hesitates shortly and then spills. “She was asking me throughout the lesson to read from the blackboard for her,” she says, sounding bitter. “She was whispering taunts straight into my ear and when I couldn’t bear that any longer, she followed me here!” Warren looks ready to burst into tears.

“That’s a lie!” cries out Hornby. Her cheeks are turning blotchy because of her outrage. “You are such a liar, Myrtle! You say that after all these times I helped you!”

They are alone. Tom listens carefully but he can’t hear anyone approaching. He can almost see in front of his eyes sentences he has read not so long ago. Notifying the teacher won’t help much, he justifies. And he is curious, so curious he is aching to try his hand at that.

He looks at the Warren girl, who is almost begging him with her eyes. Tom has no sympathy for her as she is pitiful and weak. “Can you keep a secret, Myrtle?” he asks in his most pleasant tone, allowing himself to use her name. Wishing her with all his might for her to trust him.

“I do,” she says confidently as if understanding his intention.

With a swish, Tom draws his wand. “ _Perceptio,_ ” he hisses pointing at Hornby. The girl freezes on the spot with her eyes open wide in shock. Myrtle gapes. Then she lifts her hand to cover her mouth, a look of horror stuck on her face. “You have nothing to fear, Myrtle. It will make your friend here a bit nicer than anything else would.” He turns to give her a solemn look. “If it gets out that I helped you, I can get in trouble though,” he says softly.

Warren shakes her head desperately. “I will take this secret to my grave!” she promises.

And he will make sure she does, if there is ever a shade of doubt. “Good.” Tom nods curtly.

He comes closer to Hornby and looks deep into the girl’s empty eyes. They are grey, he notices without particular interest. Her pupils don’t change when he lights his wand brightly. It calms him because it’s exactly as the book said.

He takes a moment to decide how he would like to change her perception. When he plants it in her head - he needs to push that thought the magic link connecting their minds, not unlike _imperius_ would - he obliviates her for a good measure.

“You have business to attend, don’t you Hornby? Go to take care of it.”

Without a word, she turns around and saunters off. Tom wonders how long it will take her to seem normal again. Hopefully not too long.

“I-,” starts Warren and stops short. “Thank you. Can I call you Tom? Thank you, Tom!”

Tom dislikes any uninvited familiarity. He allows her anyway because she is to keep the secret. “You are welcome, Myrtle,” he says and remains where he stands because it seems the girl wants to say something else.

She wrings her hands. “I don’t think I can do anything in kind to repay you, but maybe you want to learn a spell?” she asks timidly.

“A spell?” Tom repeats, unable to think of a spell that 5th-year girl can teach him.

“Well, to mask these dark rings under your eyes?” says Warren. “I know it’s not much but you look very tired this year! Maybe you would like for people not to see that,” she babbles.

“You know, Myrtle,” says Tom and he thinks about Dumbledore making a similar remark, “I like your idea. I will gladly learn from you.”

“Oh,” she says awed. “That’s great!” She leads him to girl’s lavatory, where she in front of the very sink that allowed him entrance to the chamber teaches him this little spell. Meanwhile, she babbles. “I was looking for spells to mask my acne but I nothing useful turned up. But instead, I found this one charm and…”

He looks at her face - it’s covered in something but doesn’t look very smooth. Muggle tricks, he guesses. In a flush of kindness he suggests, “Why don’t you ask Araminta Black about spells like that? She is bound to know them, I have never seen a single pimple on her face. She is my friend and another prefect, so she will help you.”

“Oh,” mouths Warren. Tom hopes for her sake she will ask.

xxx

When he is not haunted by the image of Potter, he agonizes over the idea of marriage rings that Gilbert mentioned to him once before. It bother him so long that he asks his friend again about them.

“Both parties must wear them for the spell to work. There were cases of men taking the ring off for the time spent with their lovers and their unwilling wives were coming to their senses then," tells him Gilbert. The distaste can be heard in his voice. Tom understands why these stories can be seen as shameful well enough.

“Couldn’t they simply take the ring off whenever they wanted?” he asks.

“No, there is a compulsion to wear it. Obviously, it wouldn’t be very effective otherwise. These women were unwilling at all. It wasn’t a measure to make the marriage bearable, it was to force them to do it at all.”

Potter took his ring off on his own, realises Tom. Or maybe his wife did it first, allowing Potter to escape the influence?

Potter seemed tense during this week, easily angered by his students. Tom would expect relief from someone freed from enchantment. But maybe the man was angered by the idea of someone stealing his property.

He decides to research this specific compulsion so he may return Potter’s band to him safe - without any enchantments to cloud man’s mind. First, he needs to learn how to discern at all if an object is charmed.

As the week passes he finds himself more and more distracted by the memory of Potter’s rooms. When he relaxes in his bed in the evenings he can almost imagine he can smell the man again. He aches to feel it for real again. To push his face into the bedding again and have his nose full of it.

He consider the potion to diminish his restraint. Once any notion takes root in his mind, he is unable to restrain himself. It seems almost impossible that he didn’t encounter them in his research.

Predictably, he slips into Potter’s rooms again on Saturday morning. He notices the mirror is no longer in the office but he doesn’t spare it a thought. Potter’s bedroom is dark exactly like last time with the man’s possessions laying on display in disorder.

He fights with himself. It’s a stupid idea, he knows. He should smell it one last time and leave before Potter returns. With worry, he thinks about the ring he took last time. He regrets his oversight as he should have left a duplicate before taking the original with him - now guarded against summoning, against being found.

The pull is too strong. He licks his lips as he stands there in the middle of the room with his gaze transfixed on the bed. He takes one step towards it with his hands trembling with nerves and excitation. _Why is he so weak_? He is already hard in his pants. 

He has been wearing his robe closed since the potion started to impact him so much, making him ache with need until he masturbated.

 _It’s not his fault_ , he decides. He came here to do it and it would be stupid to not use that opportunity. With more confidence, he approaches the bed, crawls on the sheets. It’s soft under his hands and knees. He lies down and breathes in, wanting to smell as much as he can. His hands wander around, touching where Potter must have lain a mere few hours before, warmed by these covers.

He doesn’t even realize that he is moving his hips, his eyes clouded and lips parted. His carefully combed hair is getting messy as moves his head.

A hand grasps his hair and in the next moment his head is harshly yanked up. Tom gasps in pain. He finds himself face to face with Harry Potter. Confusion muddles his brain, the man is not supposed to be here.

“Riddle,” snaps coldly Potter, his face set in anger. “Do you care to tell me what you think you are doing?”

Tom inhales slowly, trying to gather his wits. He had known there would be no good enough excuse, if he was found out. Now it’s even worse with his knees sinking into the soft mattress and Potter’s smell lingering in his nostrils.

There is nothing to be told and so Tom stays silent and suffers through the pain in his neck. He feels like his spine might crack any moment from the strain. Potter glares at him and Tom can only stare back in a state of quiet panic.

The man smiles grimly. “You must think me a fool, Riddle.” Potter leans closer and almost whispers, “Arrogance is your downfall, _Tom_. To sneak here the second time after stealing my wedding band… ” His breath tickles Tom’s ear. “You have no shame.”

“Professor,” utters Tom, “surely you don’t believe I did it!”

It doesn’t result even in tiniest sign of doubt. “I do,” says Potter and yanks Tom’s hair harsher, keeping the boy bent like a bow even when he tries to support his weight on his hands. “It’s _criminal_ to break into my rooms.” His tone is harsh. Then he continues in calmer, colder manner, “I have known since the very beginning that you are a delinquent. Do you want to put blame on me for expecting any better from you?” The question is emphasised by another painful tug.

“No!”

“You say professor Dumbledore hates you so much and yet he is the one saying you simply need a chance to adjust. He was much too lenient with you, if after seven years in Hogwarts you are still a thief.”

“I swear… I didn’t steal, I did as he said,” begs Tom. He tries to keep his voice calm when he can barely take a breath in the position he is in.

Potter’s mouth thins with displeasure. “So where it is?” he asks and Tom’s eyes flutter closed as he can’t look at him any longer and can’t tell.

Finally Potter lets him go and Tom falls on the bed. “Should I rip it from your mind?”

Tom instantly opens his eyes to look at him. His thoughts are only his as are the secrets of the Chamber and felonious origin of the Gaunt ring decorating his hand. “You can’t,” refuses Tom urgently.

“Should I take you to the headmaster then?” asks Potter.

The idea fills Tom with fear. He wishes to simply obliviate the professor to wipe his mistake away but he doesn’t dare to reach for his wand. Deep down he fears the man the same way he fears Dumbledore.

“Sir, please, no.” 

“No,” agrees Potter steadily. “I should treat you like a boy who once again failed to behave. Get up,” demands Potter and without waiting for Tom to comply he hauls him to his feet.

Tom stumbles, very far call from his usual grace and confidence. The shoulder which grasped Potter aches.

“Take your robe off. And your trousers.”

Tom regains his balance and slowly disrobes, still uncertain. He throws the clothing on the bed, his yew wand hidden in one of the pockets. Now he stands in front professor in his shirt and slacks. He unzips them but doesn’t have the nerve to really take them down.

Potter sits on the bed and grasps Tom by his unclasped belt, turning the boy to face him. Next moment his trousers are unceremoniously yanked down.

Shame fills him instantly - to be in front of this man bared - but before Tom can protest against exposing his underwear, Potter pulls him closer and bends him down until Tom falls across his lap, his eyes wide and face flushed. 

The matron wouldn’t have been able to do so but Potter is a strong man. Tom recognizes this position for a prelude to corporal punishment. His belt being untaken stirs more unease in him.

“Am I going to be caned?” he asks and thankfully his voice doesn’t waver. At the same time, he thinks it’s the first time he is so close to this man. The smell of him is much stronger now than the residue he sniffed from the bed. He feels well-muscled thighs and body heat seeping through items of clothing separating their skin.

Arousal curls in his insides alongside shame and fear.

“No,” answers Potter and pushes the boy’s briefs down. Then Tom wishes the answer to had been “yes” if only not to be punished on the bare.

Potter takes a swing at him and Tom has to choke a whimper when a hand connects with his buttocks. It stings. It shoves Tom forward a bit. His face burns as he becomes aware of how his stiff prick presses into Potter’s thighs. _Damn it_ , he thinks mortified, _it’s impossible he won’t feel it._

Potter either doesn’t or ignores it and carries on the task of spanking Tom red in a very brisk pace. Each slap - despite man’s heavy hand - bears the same unwelcome effect for Tom. He squirms on Potter’s lap and bites his lip hard when he tries to choke the noise threatening to escape his mouth.

He tries to cant his hips away but it’s useless. Every time he is driven into Potter’s thigh by the force of his hand. Tom’s shifting only leads to his underwear slipping further down and then he feels material of Potter’s robe dragging against his cock.

Tom squeezes his eyes shut, his expression pinched. Unconsciously he clenches and opens his palms. “Oh” is the first sound he can’t quell and it’s not from pain even though his ass burns from all the slaps. There must be a wet trail on Potter’s laps because it must be drooling by now. The thought is horrifying but does nothing to quell his arousal, his lust.

If only this hand - calloused and warm - slipped between his legs, touched him intimately even once…

It doesn’t happen but Tom bucks his hips anyway stricken by this image. It’s lost in all the small movements his body does anyway when hit. “No more,” he says hoarsely. “Stop…” he begs because he feels what will happen in a moment.

There is the sensation of being spanked once more, his bum bouncing slightly from impact, his nerves alight. It’s simply too much at once and he is overwhelmed by stimuli. His hips are shoved forwards and he can’t stop any longer his muscles from clenching in almost painful fashion and with moaned “Ah… ah…” as he spills on Potter’s lap.

The way his body slacks with exhaustion is unmistakable, he knows.

Potter stops and Tom peers his eyes open. With a sharp understanding of what he has just done the relief that his orgasm brought to him is instantly gone. He scrambles to his feet, pulling his briefs and pants up to cover himself. Without much thought, he moves away from Potter who looks at him with an unreadable expression.

His wand is still in his pocket on his robe left on the bed. He is afraid to look away from the teacher's face. For the first time in many years, he wishes for the earth to swallow him whole. “I… I-i,” he stutters.

Potter quietly observes Tom who is no longer even trying to mask his fear, his humiliation and then glances at the seed on his robe - pearly white stain, wet and fresh. “I see,” Potter says. Then he draws his wand and with a single flick vanishes the evidence. Still keeping his gaze on trembling Tom, he pockets it. “It’s not the outcome I expected.” He sighs.

There is no judgement on Potter’s face, only weariness, but something in Tom snaps anyway. He thinks about Ms Cole forewarning them about men lusting after other men, about hell and blindness caused by onanism. “It’s your fault,” he lashes out. Is he damned? Surely he doesn’t deserve to bear all the blame.

“What is my fault?” asks Potter calmly. He looks at Tom oddly.

“You shouldn’t have done it to me, you should have never forced me so close!” he says. He pants in his anger, his face sweaty and flushed and hair in disarray. “This punishment, it wouldn’t have gone like that if not for you!”

Potter taps his fingers on his knee. He seems to consider something and then he says, “There is no proof.” His voice is steady and he keeps eye contact with Tom all the time. “Do you see anything amiss here?”

Tom looks at his already cleaned robe. There is nothing. “It-It’s your fault,” he repeats.

“Should I remind you that you broke into my rooms, Riddle?” says Potter and Tom flinches. “You already received your punishment.” He raises his hands, showing open palms to Tom. “And there was no further transgression, yes?”

When Tom shakily nods his head, eyes wide, because he can’t comprehend what and why, Potter gets up and moves closer. He puts his hands on Tom's shoulders and draws him closer, embracing him. The hug is loose, they are barely touching at all and Tom can twist away any moment. He doesn’t. Instead he stays there stiffly, looking at the window.

“I understand you had a very disconcerting... sexual experience, Riddle… Tom.”

It’s outrageous to put his shame into such simple words. He wrenches away and bolts for the door. He jerks at the handle only to find it closed. When he turns away he sees a wand in Potter’s hand. The man sealed the door shut and Tom’s wand is still in his robe.

“I need you to calm down before I let you leave, Tom,” says Potter in the same calm tone. “I would like you to fasten your trousers, sit down and talk with me.”

And he is right as Tom’s trousers are hanging lowly on his hips unzipped and with the belt unbuckled. He slowly reaches to get his clothing in order.

“You are doing very well, Tom. Now,” says Potter and approaches him once again, “I would like you to sit with me.” He leads the boy by his arm to the couch, his touch light. There is a coffee table on which two cups of tea appear as soon as they sit.

Potter doesn’t take his hand away. It stays on Tom’s back, maybe serving as a grounding touch. It doesn’t matter, Tom only wishes it stays where it is. He has been wanting for months to break the distance.

Tom opens his mouth a few times before he can formulate a question that is nagging him. “Will you punish me for that further, sir?”

Potter shakes his head. “I won’t,” he says and strokes Tom’s back. “I also won’t share it with anyone.” It sounds like a promise.

“I didn’t want to,” chokes out Tom. Shame is torturing him again.

The man doesn’t ask him to clarify. “I know”, he says simply.

They sit in silence until they can drink their tea. It’s herbal blend and from the smell, Tom can guess it’s meant to put him at ease. He waits and still there is no judgement or disgust directed at him.

“I don’t know how to talk to you about what happened,” says Potter finally. There is unease creeping into his voice. “I suppose it was equally surprising for both of us. There is nothing wrong with being aroused by… non-standard situations, though. You shouldn’t feel embarrassed about the way you reacted.”

He’s not right but Tom doubts him voicing it would be appreciated. He looks sullenly at his cup, vapour warming his face as he keeps it close in his hands. It’s Potter’s fault truly because Tom desires not spanking or any man - he desires Potter.

Potter clears his throat. “I also need to apologise to you, Tom.” He turns his head to look at his student. “It has already gone too far. A situation like that when you break into teacher’s rooms shouldn’t take place.”

Tom doesn’t understand. “Where is your fault in this, sir? I don’t see how you are the one to apologise,” he says and yet he can’t choke out his own apology. It would be too much to say it out loud.

The man sighs. “I don’t want you to think you are without blame in this but I can see how potion could have influenced your behaviour. We should end our experiment today.”

These words trigger an instant protest. “Professor, surely you are aware that I haven’t completed the task yet. If you could only give me some more time to think about it” He doesn’t ask how and why would the potion make him break into professor’s rooms.

The man shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter. I will tell you what it is, you will learn from your experience anyway.”

“Can I have at least one more day, sir?” asks Tom. He doesn’t want to fail. He doesn’t want to prove inept.

Potter considers him. “Show me your tongue, Tom. There were some problems with it choking you more and more, yes?”

He complies and opens his mouth. There is no hiding how full his mouth is and how sometimes he can’t catch his breath. But he believed he could solve the mystery before it got too bad. The man cradles his jaw. With a knitted brow he prods Tom’s lips, making him open his mouth wider. Then he softly pulls at the tongue.

Tom’s pupils dilate when he feels salt on the man’s skin. The heat of lust is weaker this time but still present. He sucks man’s finger in, licks them. With hungry eyes he observes minuscule tensing of Potter’s face, a light flush, because connotations are obvious. Tom wishes he was allowed to try.

It’s the shortest moment before Potter pulls them away and wipes the saliva on his robe.

“So can I please have time until tomorrow, sir?” asks Tom.

“You can,” allows Potter graciously. “Come here in the evening, I will give you an antidote then.” Then he adds with much less forgiving expression, “And don’t forget to bring my wedding band back to me. I won’t let it go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tom has no impulse control altogether ( ͡~ ͜ʖ ͡°) no wonder Potter feels the need to teach him the lesson.


	7. The penalty fitting the crime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Professor Potter is forced to explain himself many times.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s the last chapter of Predilection - but before our journey ends let’s watch this car crash together. ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) 
> 
> I would like to thank all of you who helped me (@winking_peas for betaing the first few chapters!), advised me (many people from CoS discord who entertained my ramblings - it’s appreciated and truly helped me to organize my thoughts and my writing) and motivated me with your kind words/kudos/bookmarks/subscriptions. You are great, guys, and I love writing for you.
> 
> Important notice for chapter 7: there is a smut scene and apart from standard sex stuff, following kinks make an appearance: humiliation, watersports, (freestyled) e-stim. I consider my description of the last two to be pretty tame but you have been warned and you can make your own judgement.

#  ** Chapter 7 **

“What have you wanted to show me, Tom?” asks Gilbert as he follows Tom to their dorm. “I dearly hope it’s nothing indecent,” he adds and this earns him a glare from Tom.

“Who do you take me for,” mutters Tom darkly. They climb the stairs slowly. For the sake of his pride, Tom pretends he is not close to suffocating while there simply isn’t enough air in his lungs. The edges of his vision are blurry. He needs a moment to calm his breathing before he says: “It’s an interesting piece of magic that I wanted to show you. You can leave if you are not interested in that.” Tom shrugs. 

“It’s only that Clarence tried to screw with me like that once,” whines Gilbert. “Of course I am interested in seeing some good wandwork.”

When the door shuts after them, Tom charms them closed for a good measure. He turns to his friend. “Well, look at this, then.” He draws a golden wedding band from his pocket.

“You are not going to propose to me, are you?” jokes Gilbert.

Tom simply ignores him, unwilling to engage in their usual bickering when his tongue feels heavy and swollen in his mouth. He barely avoids lisping. “I have found a way to test it for compulsion charms you mentioned to me,” he announces proudly.

Gilbert’s eyes widen, his brow rising high. His paling countenance certainly doesn’t express appreciation Tom was hoping for. “Oh no,” moans Gilbert. “You haven’t bought it, have you? You have fucking stolen it!”

“Shh!” hisses Tom and with a gesture urges him to be silent. His eyes are narrowed in irritation.

“And I know from whom!” announces Gilbert in utter despair. He grips Tom’s shoulders and shakes him harshly. “You fool! Tell me you didn’t steal it from Potter? Please, tell me you didn’t…”

“Unhand me, right now!” demands Tom and pulls away from Gilbert. “I did,” he says confidently.

“Oh no,” moans Gilbert. Then he sits on the bed and hides his face in his hands. “What have I done to be friends with you, Tom? He is going to crucify you,” he murmurs into his palms.

Tom shakes his head, irritated. He takes his time to smarten his robes; they don't really need that. “He knows it was me, Gilbert, so stop your whining.”

“How is that  _ possible _ ? Did he punish you already or...”

“It simply is. Before I return the ring I need to check if it was tampered with. I thought you would like to see.”

Gilbert sighs tiredly. “I do.” Then he adds, “Why do you have to stress me so much?”

“Let's get to it now,” says Tom. There won’t be enough time for him to work on lifting any enchantments he may find woven into metal. He is going to examine the magic of the ring anyway as there is power in knowing.

Would Potter allow him to get rid of the spells? He would know about them, thinks Tom sourly, and wear the band anyway. Now it’s time for Tom to get to know this too, so he points his white wand at the ring and with a soft exhale he casts.

“Oro vim magicam revelare aliquo sollicitare cum obiectum indicatur a me,” he incants softly for the first time. Pinkish light encompasses the ring as he chants and chants until his voice turns raspy.

He clenches his fists and then forcefully opens his palms. It’s not what he anticipated. 

“There is nothing, not even customary blessing on that ring,” he says aloud. There is no sign of tampering with the ring. In his heart he knows he was deluding himself - Potter is not a man who would touch anything without checking it for curses.

For a short moment, he slips it on his finger to see how it looks. Tom doesn’t like the image, the connotations and so he quickly pockets it together with his wand.

Gilbert looks at him oddly, biting his lip but doesn’t comment on his behaviour.

“I need to leave now,” says Tom and Gilbert nods in understanding, his dark eyes still wide.

Not long after that Tom finds himself knocking to Potter’s office. 

“Come in!” calls Potter and Tom enters. “I expected you, Riddle,” he says without sparing the boy a glance. “It’s good you are so early.”

“Why?”

Potter lifts his head and gives Tom a long, level look. “You wouldn’t like me to have to look for you and then drag you to my office, would you? I had enough trouble with you already.”

Instead of agreeing with him, Tom pulls the ring from his pocket. “I am returning your wedding band, sir. I am… very sorry for taking it without your permission, sir.”

“Do you mean you apologise for stealing from me, Riddle?” asks Potter colly.

“I-,” Tom falters slightly. “Yes, I am very sorry for stealing… and breaking into your rooms.”

“Good.” Potter nods. “Put in on my desk.” He points the place with his hand. “Don’t let it happen again, Riddle. You have been punished already and I am not going to make you pay any more consequences.”

“Thank you, sir,” utters Tom. He carefully places the ring on the teacher’s desk, his eyes cast away. “Regarding our experiment…”

Potter sighs and combs his hair with his fingers. “You can sit down for that discussion, Riddle.” He looks around. “Ah, no chair today. You can conjure yourself one, can’t you?”

Tom can and does summon into existence comfortable baroque-like chair that could serve well as a throne. “Why was there no chair for guests in your office, professor?”

“I would need to search the storage room in the dungeons for one. I rarely have any business there and as it is I either conjure one or ask my guest to do so,” says Potter. “Now that you have your… chair, you can tell me how far you have progressed from yesterday.”

Tom carefully sits and clasps his hands on his lap. “Does that potion weaken my self-restraint?” he asks carefully.

Potter gives away nothing with his face. “Why do you think so?”

“I was unable to stop myself from doing these things… from entering your rooms… from dirtying your lap.” Last words are barely audible and Tom blushes again, ashamed. He forces himself to carry on. “I think the potion you have given me influenced me in this way. I-I would stop myself otherwise.”

Potter twirls the feather in his fingers the same way he twirls his wand during Defence classes. “Your logic is sound, Riddle. You are at the same time very close and very far from the truth,” he says in a measured tone. Then with a smirk, he adds jokingly, “And I am afraid you ejaculated on my lap because you are a young boy, we can’t blame potion for everything.”

Tom’s ears burn in shame.

“I would like to discuss your idea anyway. For what purpose would you use the potion you proposed?” Potter looks at him expectantly.

Under that gaze, Tom tries to concentrate. “Someone influenced by potion like that would act rashly, offend people around them. I would expect them to make many ill-conceived decisions.” His eyes meet with Potter.

Professor offers him a smile for that. “Very good, Riddle,” praises Potter and not unexpectedly Tom's blood flows south. His vision starts to swim. Potter carries on, “A person under influence of such potion would ruin their life with many bad decisions…”

As Potter speaks and speaks, Tom finds himself unable to concentrate on his words. He listens merely to the man’s voice.

“...do you think, Riddle?”

Tom opens his lips to ask him to repeat the question but the air doesn’t want to enter his lungs. He wheezes loudly - Potter looks at him alarmed - and then starts to cough. Tom almost chokes on his swollen tongue.

“Riddle? Riddle?” Potter gets up and leans forward, reaching to grab Tom by his shoulder across the desk. “Fuck!” he curses loudly when there is no answer.

Many noises are leaving Tom’s mouth as he tries to breathe. Every time he feels like he succeeded in getting some air in, he coughs it out.

Potter slams his drawers open and then shut hastily, rummaging through their content. His face is screwed in concern and every time he fails to retrieve whatever he looks for, he glances at Tom whose face steadily is getting more and more purple.

“Fuck!” curses Potter again. He slams another drawer shut with a crack, shaking his entire desk with the force of it. Inkpot falls dawn and spills on the floor. 

Then the man reaches for his wand and a vial soars into his hand. In a few long steps, he approaches the boy smearing the ink on the floor with his shoes. Without care, he throws the cork away and grabs the boy.

Potter sits Tom upright, tilts his head back and forces the vial into his open, gasping mouth. “Swallow it, Riddle,” he demands as the content of vial flows into Tom’s throat. “Don’t you dare to choke here, swallow that!” There is fear in his voice.

Tom tries. Some of it - blueish, bitter potion - spills from his mouth anyway, staining his shirt. Potter tries to force back what is dripping from the corner of Tom's mouth, cursing all the time.

As seconds pass, Tom’s breathing eases. He wheezes like an asthmatic. He slumps in the chair, his body unresponsive, loose in an unpleasant way. Potter leans over him with worry changing his features. “Alright there?” he asks. “It was antidote, I should have given it to you yesterday… such a fool,” he mutters.

Tom tries to listen to him but words are becoming lost to him. He can breathe now but blackness is taking his eyesight anyway. His muscles fail and his head lolls to his shoulder. He slips quietly into unconsciousness.

xxx

There is an ongoing conversation in the room when Tom comes to consciousness. His limbs are heavy and warm under white, hospital covers. The temptation to open his eyes is not there so he pretends to sleep and listens.

“I have trusted you to take care of Tom,” says Dumbledore in a very sombre tone. “Not to coerce him into taking a love potion keyed to  _ you _ .”

Tom tenses unwittingly.  _ Love potion _ . How could he have missed such an obvious lead? But he knows and he stays where he is, confused and angry, his fist clenching and then opening.

Potter doesn’t sound guilty when he answers. “Would you prefer it keyed to  _ you _ ?” he asks colly. “Or maybe to no one so some random, unaware person would deal with Riddle’s affections? No, Albus, there was no coercion. I invited him to make an experiment with me and controlled it until the very end.”

“You landed this boy here, in the Hospital Wing! You almost killed him with your experimentation,” accuses Dumbledore, no trace of warmth or sympathy in his voice.

“Yes,” admits Potter slowly. “I am guilty of not noticing early enough. Although I observed him, I didn’t foresee an outcome like this one.”

_ I have almost died _ , thinks Tom, remembering Potter’s hands as the man handled him harshly, forcing the glass vial between his clenching jaws. Forcing Tom to swallow bitter antidote and live. Dragging him to the Hospital Wing for the reason Tom couldn’t see.

“I cannot find words to express what I feel about this issue and I assure you, that haven’t happened in many, many years.” Tom himself would be glad to make Dumbledore speechless. The man carries on anyway. “Love potions are highly illegal. They act in insidious, highly malignant way. There is no other reason to dose a person with a love potion other than to abuse that power…”

“Albus,” starts Potter calmly, not moved in any way discernible to Tom, “I haven’t engaged in any amorous activities with Riddle.”

And Tom flushes at that, deeply ashamed about himself - because he has been aching for Potter for months, masturbating to the image of this man, aroused by his smell and voice. Because when he cummed on the man’s lap, his behaviour was still unexpected.

He tries to blame Potter for that but even now he feels a twinge of interest at the shameful memory. It should have passed the moment he drank antidote.

“Harry,” Dumbledore sighs, “that’s one of the possibilities that I would prefer to never consider. If even one teacher abuses a single student, how they are supposed to trust us?”

Potter laughs loudly. “Do you want your students to trust you, Albus?” he asks and the pitch of his voice makes it sound like a taunt. “They should never trust  _ you _ , Albus.”

“I want them to be safe and happy at Hogwarts,” says Dumbledore levelly. “Headmaster will join us shortly as it’s not a matter that can be handled by deputy. And let me tell you, Harry, that I feel truly sorry for what you did. I feel complicit by answering all these questions about poor Tom.”

“Poor Tom,” repeats Potter.

Tom hears footsteps as one of the teachers approaches him. Potter, he recognizes because Dumbledore’s steps are slower and lighter. He relaxes his facial muscles hoping to obtain an expression corresponding with a calm sleep.

A warm hand touches his forehead, combs his hair away from his face gently. Involuntarily his eyes crack open as he would never expect such tender gesture from this harsh man to be directed at him. 

Potter doesn’t look at him tenderly. His face is schooled into his usual expression of neutrality.

The moment ends and Potter draws away. Tom can hear a clink of the door being opened.

“Let’s take this conversation to my office, gentlemen. Mr Potter, surely you expected the consequences….” says Dippet.

And Tom is glad. He doesn’t want to hear them accusing Potter of abusing him. Treating Tom as a victim. He is not ready to deal with that.

“I am not a child that acts without a second thought,” answers Potter colly. “I am ready to face the consequences.”

“Very well,” says Dippet. “How is the boy, Albus?”

“He needs to rest, Armando, and then he should be fine.” Dumbledore sounds much more tired now.

As they leave the Hospital Wing, Tom slowly sinks into his thoughts. He touches his throat that merely a few hours ago constricted until he found himself unable to breathe in front of Potter, suffocating. The cold stone of the Gaunt ring brushes his skin. He was touched by death in the same place.

He imagines fearful face that Potter made when he has fallen on his carpet. It calms him.

** xxx **

Madam Radebaugh - a school nurse - allows him to leave the Hospital Wing before lunch. There is not a single mark on his body that would betray to anyone what happened.

“Headmaster Dippet would like to speak with you when you feel ready. The sooner it happens the better,” informs him the nurse. Then with a wry twist of her lips, she adds, “Please, don’t spread the story until you spoke with the Headmaster, Mister Riddle.”

He agrees. Potter didn’t forbid him to talk about the experiment. Tom didn’t share it with his friends anyway. He is even less inclined now to lay himself bare before their eyes - to confide his infatuation brought on by love potion. 

In the Great Hall Tom notices pitying glances that teachers are throwing him and carefully avoids their eyes. He concentrates on his food. Neither Dumbledore, Potter nor Dippet are present.

“Did something happen?” asks Clarence carefully, lowering his voice.

Tom shakes his head. “Nothing I want to share,” he says.

It’s Araminta who answers him, her face worried. “Maybe you should, Tom! We are your friends, we deserve to know what is the matter!”

He glares at her and they let the issue rest. If asked, he would be unable to tell what he was thinking about the entire ordeal. 

He slightly shakes in nervousness when in the evening he decides to seek Potter out. He knocks and the man himself opens the door.

“Riddle,” he says in greeting and his forehead creases, “you shouldn’t be here.”

“I can’t agree with that, professor,” says Tom quietly. “I would think that I deserve an explanation. No one is willing to give me one and yet,” he inhales deeply to calm himself, “I have heard you talking with the headmaster.”

Potter gives him a long look. “You have, haven’t you…” he murmurs, deep in thought. “Have you been in headmaster Dippet’s office, Riddle? He wants to talk with you first. Only because of that everyone else is silent.”

“And you?”

“Me?”

Tom licks his lips before he answers. “I would like to speak with you, sir. Before I fainted you were going to explain to me what happened, weren’t you?” With his eyes glued to Potter, he waits for his answer.

Potter combs his hair with his fingers. “You don’t understand, Riddle. You shouldn’t be here - I am forbidden from speaking with you.”

“Why did you bring me to the Hospital Wing?” demands Tom forcefully. “You could have waited…” he starts but Potter stops his with a gesture.

“Now, Riddle, you could have died in my office, that’s why I took you to the Hospital Wing.” He waves his hand dismissively. “That’s of no importance now. Riddle, I am fired,” he says stolidly. 

Tom pales. “You can’t be!” he protests. And he is scared because this man can’t simply disappear from his life so suddenly. “You can’t simply… simply….” He shakes, his face sweaty from the nerves. “You must stay!”

“Riddle,” says Potter and there is a hint of sadness, of guilt in his voice. The man seems torn and then he grabs Tom by his shoulders and pulls him into a short hug. “You will feel better tomorrow, I am sure,” he murmurs into the boy’s ear while Tom stiffly stands in his arms, his eyes wide.

“I need to speak with you…”

“I know,” Potter sighs and pulls away. “I am teaching until the end of the week. Then I will pack my things and leave the castle. You have time to think things through before that. Now you should return to your Common Room.”

xxx

Tom smoothens his freshly pressed robe before entering Dippet’s office. There was no need for him to put a glamour on his face this day - he slept.

“Mister Riddle,” Dippet greets him. He is a frail mage with his hair whitened by age and trembling bony hands. “How are you faring?”

“I am well, headmaster, thank you. Have you wanted to speak with me?” Tom clasps his hands behind his back, his eyes half-lidded but otherwise lucid and clear.

“Yes,” says Dippet. He is unable to hold his goblet. It hovers dutifully millimetres away from his fingers when he takes a sip of his drink, moved by the force of his magic. “I am very sad that you suffered because professor Potter abused his power as a teacher. I loathe to ask you about these matters but it’s necessary, Mr Riddle, that you share details with me.”

“I am sorry, headmaster,” says Tom carefully, “but is it necessary for what?”

He looks at this man - man who has been kind to him, who congratulated him many times on his achievements, who proposed to help him publish some essays Tom has written. He looks at his long, hooked nose, tanned face that he would be unable to recognize from the man’s old photos because the entire skin is wrinkled. He looks at him and thinks how this one time his help is unnecessary.  _ Why is he taking Potter away from him? _

“Mr Riddle, you are a bright young man, you must understand how important it is to bring this matter to the Auror Office?”

Tom breathes in. It’s difficult to keep his face passive.

“Professor Potter didn’t commit any crime, though, sir. What would you like to tell them?” He weaves some surprise and some more incomprehension into his voice. He wants headmaster to believe it’s merely a  _ misunderstanding _ .

“Did he administer you a love potion, Mr Riddle?”

“He did, but…” Headmaster lifts his hand to stop him.

“He did,” repeats Dippet solemnly. “Did he touch you, Mr Riddle?”

Tom flushes. “No,” he says, his voice choked and suddenly he wants to leave more than to convince Dippet.

“Never, Mr Riddle?”

“He may have touched my head to administer me the antidote.” He forces himself to look straight into Dippet’s eyes, to meet that searching gaze and assure this man that nothing happened to him under Potter’s care.

“Can we consider this reasonable?” asks Dippet.

“Surely yes!” says Tom. “I would have suffocated in his office otherwise!”

“Good.” Dippet nods his head. “Excuse me for being so crude… Has Potter ever asked you to do anything sexual with him?”

“No, he hasn’t,” says Tom and tips of his ears are red from shame. How can they talk about it like that when Tom still aches for this man? When he wishes they did. Self-disgust ties his mouth shut and he is unable to do much more than answer with yes and no to these intrusive questions.

“Has professor Potter ever asked you to do for him anything unrelated to your studies?”

“No.”

They look at each other and Tom tries hard to stay composed.

“Is there… anything else that you should mention to me, Mr Riddle?” asks Dippet. “Please, be honest with me.”

Tom breathes in. He is clasping his hands in his polite pose that his fingers are white from the stain. “If you allow me to say that, headmaster… There is no reason to bring this incident to the Auror Office. I only wish I could discuss this incident with professor Potter.”

“Is that wise, Mr Riddle?”

“Yes,” he says calmly. “I agreed to be dosed. Professor Potter stayed professional towards me even when I behaved…” he is unable to finish. “I am anxious about some things I did and it would bring me a peace of mind to be able to speak with professor Potter about my experience.”

“You know I wish you best, Mr Riddle. If you believe that’s going to benefit you, then I won’t stop you from speaking with professor Potter.” Dippet reaches to small leather notebook and it opens untouched. Tom recognizes it’s a planner. “I asked professor Potter to leave the castle on Saturday,” he says and looks at Tom to make sure the boy understands. “That’s all I wanted to discuss with you, Mr Riddle. Have a good day and never hesitate to reach to me when you need help.” He smiles. Old age made his lips almost nonexistent.

“Thank you, sir.”

Tom carefully shuts the door when he leaves the office. The tension he feels make his face look like a mask - without one muscle moving, frozen into indifferent calm.

There is one place where he can hide from everyone, where he can rest until his nerves don’t feel so frayed. His diary is hidden in his bag, waiting to be filled with words. He charms himself invisible before he enters second-floor girl’s bathroom and with a hissed “ _ Open _ ” he descends to the Chamber.

Tom has found the Chamber of Secrets years ago. There was no need to visit it after completing his search. Now as the entrance opens with a scrape, the sink with single snake adorning it moving slowly away, he is reminded of his first descent into the depths of Hogwarts.

He stands in front of the dark maw, black hole in the middle of the white-tiled bathroom and he allows himself to be scared of the long slide awaiting him. His composure is crumbling as it is. He kneels and swings his legs inside. The pipe is covered with a dark, smelly grime. Tom takes a deep breath and slides in, the entrance closing after him.

When he stands safely on the ground again he draws his wand. “ _ Lumos _ ,” he whispers. Skeletons crack under his feet as he heads forward, hissing  _ open  _ and  _ open  _ and open until he finds himself in the Chamber.

It’s as he remembers it. Upon first glance, the floor is one lustrous surface. He forces his wand to shine brighter so he can see a stoop leading to the feet of Salazar Slytherin’s statue. Tom approaches it, cold water soaking his shoes and robes. They grow heavy, dragging behind him as he wades forward.

He nestles on his ancestor’s feet. Most of the paint peeled off long ago but when he squints his eyes, he can see traces of red. Tom dries his dripping clothing with a charm and pulls his diary out of his bag, glowing wand in his one hand and brown feather in another. He rests the notebook on his lap and slowly writes down what he feels.

He has written already several lines, some of the words blotchy because of his shaking hand, when he hears a splash of water and triangular head breaks the surface. It’s as big as a canoe.

“ _ What is little heir doing here? _ ” hisses the snake, its tongue tasting the air. It’s grey like a marble with bright blue and red speckles on its spiked back. 

“ _ I am resting here, _ ” hisses back Tom.

“ _ Little heirs are like that, _ ” says the basilisk. “ _ Slithering into the chamber to look at the stones and then leaving without paying honours to the master. _ ”

“ _ Why are you bothering me? I have no need for you today. _ ” Tom’s brow knits.

“ _ I am too hungry to sleep, _ ” hisses the snake as it swims in circles. Whenever it breaks the surface its yellow eyes are like lanterns, glowing in the dark chamber with its own light.

Tom asked about it the first time he looked straight into them and wasn’t turned into the stone. They were charmed by his greatest ancestor, Salazar Slytherin, to never harm those speaking parseltongue. There was a curse carried in Salazar descendants’ blood, in Tom’s blood, that made them immune to basilisk deadly gaze.

“ _ I will bring you food in some time, _ ” lies Tom. He expects to leave the chamber today and never return to this remnant of his cursed ancestry. “ _ You should leave me now. _ ”

He writes about that. With his interest in men and with his uncle rotting in Azkaban, there would be no more descendants from his line. The Chamber would remain closed forever and the basilisk would die within it, it’s body sinking into the depths of black water filling it to decompose.

Tom dearly hopes it’s not family magic keeping it alive.  _ Lord Voldemort _ is going to live forever, even when a schoolboy Tom Riddle dies with his naive dreams and memories of being brought up in poverty and laughed at for his oddness.

_ Tom Marvolo Riddle _ , states the first page of his diary.  _ Lord Voldemort _ , states the last one. With his research taking pages upon pages, with photos of Potter held inside, Tom wishes it would be so easy to turn into Lord Voldemort as it is to turn the diary around and write “ _ I have done things trespassing the limits of humanity. _ ”

The basilisk breaks the surface again and its fangs glisten in the light of Tom’s wand when it opens its maw to hiss, “ _ Little heir should feed me today. Little heir should honour the great master by sacrificing in the Chamber a muggle to sate my hunger. _ ” Tom shivers at these words while the snake carries on, “ _ I am the guardian of the Chamber. Little heir must feed me for me to guard the master’s secrets forever. _ ”

“ _ I won’t feed you today, _ ” says Tom boldly. 

The snake raises until it’s higher than Tom. The snake is monstrous in size and the water level in the chamber seems to lower as it pulls more and more of its body from the depths.

Tom needs to tilt his head to even look at the snake towering far above him. 

“ _ I will feed myself to honour master’s wishes, _ ” hisses the basilisk. Then it plunges in, making waves and the water splashes Tom. 

“ _ No! _ ” he shouts, getting to his feet, forcing his things into his bag hastily. “ _ I forbid you! _ ”

But the monstrous snake slithers to the exit from the chamber, its body visible under the surface. Tom runs after it, chasing it. The water slows him down.

“ _ I order you to stay in the Chamber! _ ” he shouts desperately and tries to wade forward faster because the snake doesn’t listen to him.

He is panicked it will be able to leave, to resurface in girls’ bathroom. He stumbles on the rubble as he chases the snake through the long corridor leading from the Chamber.

Tom sees how the snake sticks his head into the pipe leading outside. He runs faster, even as he pants so harshly he is afraid of spitting his lungs in a moment. His muscles burn and sweat streams down his nape.

He throws himself after the snake, his knees painfully scraping on the stone. He grasps basilisk’s tail and it must be his magic allowing his fingers to pierce thick scales. He holds it and doesn't slip.

As much as he wishes to, he is unable to bodily stop it. He is dragged upward by the snake. It’s doubtful the monster even knows about little human clinging to its tail.

Tom keeps his hands clenched even when his entire arms burn from the strain of keeping his body suspended. The pain in his knees is inconsequential.

The pipe is flooded by light and Tom knows that the entrance opened for the snake - or maybe it opened for him, he doesn’t know. The basilisk must have reached the floor, because it drags its body up in a few long glides. 

The snake's tail hits the floor and Tom lets himself uncling. He falls on the tiles ungracefully and groans.

In front of another set of mirrors stand two girls, somehow unaware yet.  _ Did the snake drag them into the room so quickly _ ? Too quick for them to notice something happening? Tom wishes to shout a warning to them but should they cover their eyes before the deadly gaze or escape from being swallowed alive? He doesn’t know and all air left his lungs when he hit the floor.

The body of the snake fills almost entire bathroom, circling the entrance to the chamber. The monster slithers forward, raising its head, preparing to strike. 

The grime and water from Basilisk’s scales are smeared on the tiles. Tom is dirty himself, he knows. Before he scrambles to his knees, a scream pierces the air. It’s cut short and one of the girls freezes.

Tom wishes to push the other girl away before she turns her head and looks into the eyes of the beast. Is that Araminta with long blonde hair? With a swish of his wand, he wills it to happen.

There is a deafening crack and the girl is blasted away. She falls into one of the cabins, the construction shaking. Whatever happens to her there, the door clicks closed after her and Tom counts it as a blessing. The snake recoils.

“ _ Little heir, _ ” it hisses malignantly, “ _ should I eat you too? _ ”

Tom takes a deep breath, his entire body shaking and sweaty. He barely stands there. He looks at the frozen girl. She has her hair in pigtails and wears red glasses. Myrtle Warren, he recognizes with sickly feeling sinking in his stomach. He starts coughing and barely stop himself from vomiting.

He turns his eyes to the snake when he gets his bearings. He was too late. He failed to stop it from happening. 

Tom breathes in. “ _ As the heir of Salazar Slytherin, greatest of the Hogwarts four, I order you to return to the Chamber, _ ” he hisses in his last desperate attempt to gain control over this beast.

The snake freezes for a moment and then slowly starts slithering into the hole leading to the chamber. In the silence of the room only the sound of scales rubbing on the floor can be heard and Tom's erratic breaths.

Tom sways in relief and then stumbles. He takes a few uneven steps back until he meets the wall and slides down. He allows his wand to fall on his lap and brings his grime-covered hands to his face. His cheeks are wet and he tries to wipe them, smearing more and more dirt on his skin.

The door to the bathroom opens with a bang - Tom almost doesn’t notice.

“Riddle!,” calls the intruder and Tom lifts his head to see Potter. The man’s eyes are wild and his hair is a mess. In his hand, he grips his holy wand.

Then Potter looks around and stops in his tracts shocked by the image - big snake slowly slithering into the pipe, crying Head Boy covered in grime and one girl-turned-statue in lavatory with slime and splinters from the cabin littering the floor.

“What have you done, Riddle?” asks Potter. “What have you done, you stupid boy?!” he shouts.

Riddle is unable to answer him. Feeling like a bystander, he observes as Potter approaches him and drags him to his feet so he can shake him. Tom hisses in pain from his injuries and teacher’s bruising grip.

“Have you released the snake to kill the girl?!”

“I haven’t!” Tom shakes his head, tears still clouding his vision. “I tried to stop it,” he says and barely recognizes his own voice. 

“You sent it to kill Mudbloods, didn’t you?” demands Potter forceful.

Tom sniffs. “I swear!” he says. “Why can’t you believe me this once?!” He is crying, he notices with shame.

Potter lets him go, his nose scrunched up and Tom falls again on the floor. The man turns to the girl and mutters some charms, pointing at her.

“She is dead,” he announces somberly, his voice full of disgust. He throws a loathing glance at Tom and then at the basilisk. “What are you going to do now that you’ve killed her?” he asks in a flat tone.

“I don’t know, I didn’t want to kill anyone!”

“Are you ready to sail to Azkaban, Riddle? It’s where your place is - with dementors,” says Potter angrily.

Tom shakes his head in denial. “I beg you… I didn’t mean to…”

“What have you meant then, you fool!”

“It didn’t listen to me,” chokes out Tom. “I tried to stop it! I swear!” He feels helpless and deadly tired, his eyelids are dropping. He can’t stop shaking and Potter doesn’t listen. _ Should he kill the man?  _ He entertains the thought, his grimy fingers turning white as he grips his wand tightly. He would defend himself against Aurors by calling the basilisk back.

“What were you doing in the chamber then?! Playing chess?!” Potter towers above him, angry and threatening. Tom sees violence buzzing in this man.

“Writing in my diary,” he says truthfully, his voice faint.

Potter looks at him as if he has grown a second head. He presses his lips into a thin line. The moment passes and it seems he has reached some decision as grip on his wand relaxes.

“How do you even cover that shit,” groans Potter. He sounds torn and sad, but not shocked.

_ Because he expects the worst from me _ , thinks Tom. 

Potter flicks his wand and Tom’s diary flies out of Tom’s bag. Potter grabs it easily and pages through the notebook cursorily. Tom twitches, uncomfortable at the sight. Before he can react, Potter throws it back on his lap.

“Oh, well,” says Potter. “Call basilisk back.”

“What?!” protests Tom with a weak tremble.

“Do you want Hogwarts to be closed, Riddle?” asks Potter impatiently and when Tom shakes his head, he carries on, “Then a body can’t be found. Do what I say for your own sake, Riddle.”

“What do you want me to ask it to do?” he asks faintly.

“Eat the girl,” answers Potter.

Tom’s heart frantically beats in his chest when he calls the beast back. “ _ In the name of Salazar Slytherin… _ ” he incants because Salazar’s command is the only one the basilisk follows.

The basilisk hears him and stops his descent. It draws back into the bathroom, lifting meters after meters of its body into the air until its head can fall on the tiles. “ _ Close your eyes _ ,” demands Tom and the beast complies.

They are both silent when the monster flicks its tongue to smell the air. “ _ Little heir. More people, _ ” hisses the snake as it draws closer to the frozen form of Myrle. Then the beast opens its jaws and raises to swallow the girl.

The head is first to disappear in snake’s maw and Tom is glad that these eyes frozen in horror can no longer be directed anywhere near him. The basilisk is big and its body isn't even slightly distended after it lowers its head to the ground, swallow after swallow devouring the body whole.

Tom is unable to avert his eyes from the scene. The tremors shaking his body are not waning and he sits there feverish and horrified. Fascinated. He exhales in relief when the snake turns around to leave.

“Urge it to retreat quicker,” demands Potter. His face is passive again, outwardly unmoved by the spectacle.

Tom nods his head and rushes the snake until the entrance to the chamber clicks shut behind it. Meanwhile, Potter walks around.

“Scourgify,” he casts until the bathroom looks clean. Nothing happened here. No one died on these tiles. When it’s all shining, the man opens Myrtle’s bag. “Are you too sick to learn something new, Riddle?” asks Potter.

“I can look,” utters Tom.

“I will perform forgery,” explains Potter carefully. “A goodbye note written by Myrtle is going to be found. Do you have any ideas what excuse she may have used?”

“She was bullied,” whispers Tom. His words are sluggish, ideas coming to him slowly. “They taunted her glasses and acne. She liked someone, I think, they made fun out of this too.”

“Very good, Riddle,” praises Potter and offers a minute smile. “Now, I will take the parchment, her inkpot and quill.” He extracts the set from the bad. Every item looks well used. She was Muggleborn, thinks Tom, she must have bought them already second-hand using scholarship the same way Tom has. “I am moving my wand in circular motions, concentrating on the text and the person whose handwriting I want to imitate.  _ Indite _ .”

As Tom squints his eyes, he sees the faint trace of magic left by the tip of Potter’s wand as the man casts. It’s dark violet hue so faint he may be imagining it from exhaustion. 

“I will deliver it safely,” says Potter. He gets up. The note is rolled and hidden in his pocket. He simply vanishes Myrtle’s bag.  _ Was her wand eaten? _ , wonders Tom. It’s a custom for a witch or wizard to be buried with their wand.

“Riddle,” says Potter and Tom raises his eyes to the man. “It’s time to leave. I don’t want you to enter this bathroom or the Chamber ever again.” His tone is sombre.

Tom doesn’t answer as he tries to get up. After he falls again, Potter curses and approaches him.

“I am not a mediwizard,” says Potter but his wand glows many colours as he moves it along Tom’s body and it’s obviously a diagnostic spell, “or I would have spelt the antidote straight into your stomach last time.” He laughs derisively. “Are you ready for my Auror-level healing spells?”

Tom nods. No one ever asked him to prepare for the healing of all things. When Potter casts, he understands. The magic washes over him, making his skin crawl as it mends torn skin, his bones ache.

Tom exhales when it passes and scrambles to his feet. Potter steadies him his a firm grip on his shoulder. He doesn’t stop Tom when the boy approaches one of the cabins. 

Tom opens the door. The second girl, the one he blasted away to save her, lies sprawled on the floor, Slytherin crest adorning her uniform and a prefect badge next to it. He remembers her hair blonde but it’s black and slightly wavy now. She must have hit her head because there is a trail of dried blood coming from her temple.

Tom kneels next to her and reaches to her face, hoping to feel her breath on his hand. He does. As he looks at her face, he realizes that he knows her.

“The spell must have failed after she fainted,” he mutters to himself.

“Do you know her?” asks Potter, drawing closer

“She looks like Araminta Black,” he says carefully. “I don’t know why her nose is humpier now, though.”

Potter stays silent for a moment and then he suggests: “Some Blacks have metamorphmagus ability. You will return her to your Common Room as she is your housemate.”

Tom looks at the man hesitantly. “Can you heal her, sir?”

“Yes. And then I am going to obliviate her.” He kneels next to Tom and gets to work. Within seconds the blood is vanished and Araminta's pale skin whole.

Tom considers his options. “There is no need to mess with her memory, sir. She won’t tell a word.”

“Is she your friend?”

“She is,” he admits.

“Good,” says Potter with a curt nod. “She is fine. Revive her after I leave.” He turns on his heel and leaves then.

“ _ Rennervate _ ,” casts Tom and the girl jerks awake.

** xxx **

It's the last day of Potter's stay in the castle, when Tom makes another attempt to reach the man.

“I asked headmaster Dippet for the permission to speak with you,” says Tom, when Potter opens the door to his office.

The man invites him with a gesture of his hand. “Come in then,” he says.

“Thank you, professor.” Tom follows him into the room. The office is stripped from Potter’s things, the desk empty and clean. The man leads him to his private chambers. “I was afraid you won’t have time to speak with me.”

“Last time I failed to explain to you our experiment. Take a seat. Tea? Let’s get it out of the way and then we can part our ways.”

Tom inhales deeply. This casual disregard pains him now in a new way. How may this man not know?

“Why did you cover for me?” he demands, driven by his aching heart, his hands clenching on the material of his robe. “If they closed the school, you wouldn’t be publicly fired.”

“Headmaster Dipped ordered the search for the girl. The note was proven genuine,” says Potter evenly, ignoring Tom's questions. “They will announce it today.”

They sit in the armchairs, coffee table with a steaming pot of tea standing between them. Tom tramples his wish to abolish it and pours himself some tea. 

“I don’t care to hear that.” Tom scowls. “I want to talk with you.”

Potter throws up his hands, his smile slightly mocking. “You already know that I dosed you with a love potion. Surely you have heard about Amortentia… You must have encountered it in your search.” His voice is level as he speaks.

“I don’t understand, sir,” says Tom and looks at Potter coyly, his eyes lowered. “Why would you want to have me loving you? Why would you save me from Azkaban sentence?”

“Without my help, you would be forced to find your own way of covering your crimes.” Potter looks at his student disdainfully. “I stepped in to do the damage control before anyone else suffered.”

“That doesn’t explain it, sir. Wouldn’t it be easier to call the Aurors and let them arrest me?”

Potter is silent for a long while, simply looking at Tom with a troubled expression.

“I am not a lawful man, Riddle,” he says lowly. “It’s more honesty than you deserve,” he sneers, allowing himself for a short moment to show his attitude, “but I am not fond of throwing every criminal into Azkaban. The penalty must fit the crime, do you see? Locking everyone away is a weak punishment and so I prefer to serve my own…”

Tom looks at him enchanted. “For what crime was I punished with Amortentia?”

“Were you even punished, Riddle?”

“We discussed last time how effects I experienced made my life miserable,” says Tom softly.

To his great horror, Potter laughs at him. “I wonder how much!” exclaims the man. “Are you miserable still, Riddle?”

“I am,” says Riddle solemnly and takes his risk: “because you want to leave.”

Potter's amused is instantly wiped from his face. His lips set into a grim line.

“You,” Potter points at him in accusation, “a murder, want me to stay in contact with you? Your actions led to the death of this girl… and as I know your obsession with the dark arts - to many more crimes." He shakes his head and asks mockingly: " _ You  _ want me to entertain your wishes?”

“I have sworn to you it was unintentional,” says Tom resignedly. “I tried to stop it from happening. It was a failure.” And these words are as painful as the entire conversation is because  _ Lord Voldemort doesn’t fail _ .

“For what purpose would I indulge you, Riddle?” demands Potter.

“If you let me stay close, you can keep an eye on me easily,” says Tom lowly. “Keep me close to yourself so I can’t do anything  _ bad _ .”

“Why should I take responsibility for you, Tom? To give you an opportunity to bring trouble to my door?” asks Potter coldly, mocking him. “You have already shown me that you turned out bad. There is no saving you, so why should I waste my time pretending you can be any other way.”

“But I can,” promises Tom, “I have shown you my diary, you have read its pages!”

“Yes,” agrees Potter, “I have read pages upon pages of your research on the Dark Arts.” His brow is knitted, expression thunderous.

“You were supposed to guide me, professor,” says Tom, his tone becoming almost pleasant. “It’s what you said to professor Dumbledore, right? He was very glad that you would stop me from making mistakes.” With his eyes turned to Potter and his head slightly bowed to obscure the upturn of his lips, he awaits the man’s reaction.

He expects some semblance of guilt. There is none on Potter’s carefully schooled expression and Tom is reminded again why he wants this man so badly.

“I am sorry, Riddle,” says Potter in low voice, “I couldn’t have predicted you freeing the Slytherin’s Beast, could I? That is not a beginner's mistake but a sheer stupidity.” He shakes his head. “Do you want me to keep you tied up in the wardrobe?”

Why would he need to do so, when one flick of his wand is enough to have Tom trashing on the floor?

“You cursed me before,” starts Tom carefully, “to teach me a lesson, I think.”

“Have it taught you anything?” asks Potter.

It makes Tom uneasy. Dumbledore set his wardrobe on fire to punish him for stealing. What did he do to earn Potter’s curse? Nothing, he realizes and the answer becomes clear enough. “You wanted me to experience fear,  _ sir.  _ I am afraid I don’t know for what purpose.”

Potter lifts his hand and there is already a holy wand firmly held and pointed at Tom. “Did you learn?”

Tom’s eyes widen. He slides his hands along his sides. He feels with his palm his own wand hidden in the left pocket of his robe. He doesn’t dare to draw it out. With a forced swallow, he answers “I did learn to fear you.” His sweating nape feels cold and hot at once. Potter lowers his wand. “If I can ask, sir, what was I supposed to learn from the potion?”

From _ love potion _ , he doesn’t say.

Potter makes a face. “This experiment was a mistake,” he says. “Besides you were unsuccessful. I don’t think you learned anything from that.”

Tom breathes in, collecting himself. “What did you expect to see, professor? Was there any outcome you waited for?”

The holy wand reflects the sun rays as Potter twirls it. His eyes are wide for the first time.

“I can tell you why I was unable to recognize what potion you dosed me with,” says Tom when he understands that he won’t get any answer. He may offer his own.

“Why?” asks Potter with a wry twist of lips and Tom can guess what he thinks - that as bad as Tom is he wouldn’t be able to recognize love if it hit him in the face. All the while Tom read that love potions can induce only as much as obsession and sexual pull. He had known these.

“You must know, professor, that I feel now not much different than I did in past months. When I took the potion the change was negligible too.” Tom offers him a shy smile, a coy look that goes well with his features. “I have been very interested in you from the start and it’s why I am here.”

Potter looks angry, embarrassed and shocked at the same time. He clears his throat. “I don’t have any feelings for you, Riddle. My wife is waiting for my return.”

“I believe you want to punish me, sir,” says Tom with an understanding nod. “You wanted to make me suffer with that potion. Why don’t you let me stay for that? I will gladly allow you to use me as you like.”

They can both hear uneven breath that Potter takes. “You don’t know what it entails.”

“I know. And I can show you, sir, how aroused I am by this prospect,” offers Tom. He grasps the table to support himself and slides down until he feels the cold floor, until he kneels in front of Potter. “Can I please you like that?”

“You can try.” Potter’s eyes are dark and burning as he agrees. His disgust and his wife are both forgotten for the moment and Tom is glad for this chance.

Tom swallows and licks his lips. They are dry from the nerves even though now his mouth is starting to fill with saliva. There was a fantasy he concocted a long time ago. He reaches to unbutton Potter’s robes just as he dreamed about, the fabric soft and buttons are uncooperative in his trembling fingers.

Potter doesn’t say a word and doesn’t reach to help Tom. He looks at the kneeling boy with dark, hungry eyes. When Tom thinks he will get another button undone, it slips from his fingers.

He looks up to see the man still patiently waiting. When he gets Potter robes open, unzipping his jeans is much easier. Then he sees the shape of cock tenting grey underpants. He pushes them down quickly and there is an eager prick in front of his face.

Being in close proximity Tom inhales the smell of clean skin and intense aroma of musk. He is intimidated by this dick - plump and flushed in its eagerness to be taken into the warm mouth. 

“Not so brave anymore, Riddle?”

His head jerks up and he forces himself to take a steadying breath before reaching out to trace greenish veins with his fingers. He leans forward and maps it with his tongue, the skin soft and warm.

The smell is heady, it’s arousal permeating the air. Tom opens his mouth and takes inside as much as he can bear, the cock forcing his tongue to flatten, the blunt head tickling roof of his mouth. 

“Suck it,” demands Potter, his voice husky.

He listens to Potter’s breath as he swallow around it and tries to bob his head. When he feels Potter’s hands on his head, Tom turns his teary eyes up. He allows the man to move his head back and forth, tugging at his hair, as he sucks. He shortly turns sloppy with saliva dripping from his lips. He chokes every time the man pushes too far, making a mess of himself.

“Don’t touch yourself,” warns Potter harshly and tugs Tom’s hair harder, forcing himself deeper. The boy chokes, tears streaming his face.

Potter takes one hand away, putting instead a cold tip of his holy wand to Tom’s temple. Tom shudders helplessly, half-aroused half-scared by what is to come.

It coruscates bright white. The sparks settle on Tom’s pale skin, leaving reddish marks. The boy flinches away from electric shock they are giving him.

The tip slips along the contour of his jaw to his sensitive neck. Potter’s hand tangled in his hair is the only thing keeping him from escaping the torture. He flinches anyway and each time is punished by a tug on his hair. His throat convulses when he wants to whimper in pain. His mind stays hazy.

“What a painslut you are, Riddle,” gasps Potter. “What a little wonder.”

He moves Tom’s head away, his cock slipping from boy’s warm mouth, a tread of saliva following it. Tom gasps like a fish on a hook, his eyes hazy.

“Letting you kneel is nowhere near enough for me,” declares Potter. “The things you have done… The things I will do to you…” Potter leans closer. “I am going to spank you until you piss yourself, Riddle.”

Even the tips of his ears tinge red at the thought of doing something so embarrassing. “I wouldn’t,” he utters and his voice is raspy from the blowjob he has just given. 

He sees the scene anyway in his mind - himself stretched across Potter’s lap, squirming desperately as every strike of man’s hand makes him momentarily unable to hold it, his spurts of piss soaking them both. Shame makes him hot all over, something twists inside him and he doesn’t know whether it’s mortification or arousal.

“Or maybe I will stretch that ass until you cry,” suggests Potter lowly, smirk stretching his lips and his teeth flashing. Tom’s expression is dazed and he looks lost kneeling at man’s feet, a blush colouring his skin and lips and chin still glistening with his spit.

Potter bends down and grabs Tom’s collar, forcing the boy to lean toward him. With sure fingers he undoes three top buttons of Tom’s shirt. He reaches inside and slides his hand across boy’s chest. It’s a sensual caress that turn painful the moment Potter finds Tom’s nipple and clasps it harshly.

Misery twists Tom’s face into a grimace. They don’t break eye contact and Tom can almost see cruelty that makes Potter twist the nub harsher. 

“A-ah”, he cries out. The same power that allows him to tell apart truth and lie makes his almost fill that urge to torture him. He allows this gladly.

Potter flicks his wand and buttons of Tom’s shirt are spelt undone. The wand slips lower, white sparks sprinkling once again, and marks his chest. The burns it leaves are not dissimilar to scars left by lightnings. It makes his pectorals stings, makes muscles of his stomach convulse when Potter moves it lower.

“You seem to be sensitive there,” comments the man, kneeling. While the tone of his voice remains cold, it still betrays his arousal. Smoothly he touches Tom’s nipple with the tip of his wand.

The current shoots through Tom’s body. His nipple feels hot and his nerves are alight. His back curves as he reflexively flexes and a loud moan spills from his mouth.

Potter looks at him transfixed with his hand following the movement to don’t halt the torture. When he does it’s only to shock the boy anew.

He tugs Tom closer, letting the boy rest on his chest. A thin line is drawn on Tom’s ribs - one moment it’s cold from the touch of wood and magic, the next it becomes searing hot in pain. His head lolls to Potter’s arm where it rests while Tom pants harshly and his body shakes. The feeling of warm, solid chest is both consolation and reminder of the presence of his chosen torturer’s humanity.

Warm hands slip down to Tom’s hips where they rest on the jutting bone. The fingers, one of them adorned by a golden wedding band, find their way under waistband of the boy’s slacks. They tease the skin there - and Tom shudders, his stomach rising and falling under these palms as he breathes deeply to stew his excitement.

Potter moves his head along Tom’s neck, touching it with his nose. Tom feels his hot breaths, moisture condensing on his skin. He flushes a deeper shade when he hears, when he notices the tell-tale movement of air indicating the man is smelling him.

Tom allows his slacks to be unzipped. He bucks his hips when a hand wanders down to squeeze on his dick. “What will you do to me?” he asks, tilting his head. The man’s stubble scratches gently on his neck.

“You have given yourself to me,” whispers Potter, “so I can do what I fancy to you.” He teases Tom’s clothed cock with the tip of his wand. The boy squirms and gasps threatened and aroused. Potter doesn’t shock him  _ there _ .

“I did. And what will you do with me?”

Potter kisses his exposed neck. “You will bend over for me like a good boy, won’t you?”

Tom’s thoughts are scattered. “I never touched myself there,” he says. He bites his lip. “Is that even… alright?” he asks and regrets ever expressing his doubts. Surely Potter will mock him. It’s the Tom who is going to do the bending while Potter will fuck him just as any other hole.

“Yes, it’s alright,” confirms Potter in a softer tone, his breathing seems to slow down a bit. “I will touch you there first.” His hands are caressing Tom’s thighs. “Aren’t you here to be used as I see it fit? I would like to do that to you.”

With his eyes cast down Tom menages to say “I will bend for you”. Shame is burning his cheeks.

Potter pats him on the thigh. “Strip down and get on the bed.”

He gets up and shucks his clothes off. He hangs his robe on the rack offered by Potter and folds somewhat the rest. 

Completely naked he crawls on the bed under Potter’s hungry gaze. His skin is pale and clean apart from marks that the man has just left on him and some faded scars on his buttocks from particularly harsh punishment he received once as a child. 

When he sees the look he receives, he flushes even more - embarrassment colouring his chest. He doesn’t lower his eyes. Waiting on his four for the man to approach him he looks eager. 

“What if I am not clean inside?” he asks in mortification when Potter takes off his clothes - before the man was too busy looking at Tom.

“You certainly aren’t,” says Potter, pulling his undershirt over his head. “I will spell you clean, filthy boy.” He smirks, glee shining in his eyes.

It does elicit a response - a slight flinch and another droplet of transparent fluid, pre-ejaculate. Tom thinks he should have paid more attention to his book found in the Room of Hidden Things so he would be able to prepare himself.

He is groomed though. in the morning he trimmed his pubic hair with great care to a reasonable length, hoping that Potter will accept him when he slides to his knees. 

The man shucks his socks as last thing and comes to Tom. He presses flush to the boy’s backside, his erect cock sliding into his cleft. Tom’s hole pulses at the touch and he needs to breathe in as his muscles contract in arousal.

“I am going to slide in exactly here,” whispers Potter, grinding against him. “I am casting the spell now.”

Tom nods silently and the man pulls away from him. A cold feeling washes over his bowels. It’s not unpleasant but strange, alien sensation. 

“Accio,” mutters Potter and glass jar soars straight into his outstretched palm. With his head lowered, Tom can see upside-down how the man spills some of that on his fingers. Seeing his gaze, he explains. “It’s lubricant, Riddle. Women have their own lubrication, we will help yourself with this handy jar.”

Then he touches his pucker, teasing it gently. Tom can’t help how he tenses at these sensations - of cold and slippery fingers touching him in that place. Potter doesn’t seem to mind as he simply continues with his ministration, coaxing the body to allow his fingers inside.

“You are doing very good, Riddle,” says Potter and slaps boy’s buttock with his other hand. The passage clenches around him shortly. “Showing myself what a dirty boy you are, liking being stretched open by your teacher.”

A small sound leaves Tom’s throat. He wants to disagree and yet it’s the truth. Fingers are moving in and out of him without much resistance from his pucker.

“Yes, flaunting your ass to me like a whore,” taunts Potter and it earns him a shudder from Tom. He slaps his bottom for a good measure and gets up. 

The bed creaks and bounces as Potter moves to kneel behind Tom. He tries to relax as blunt head of Potter’s cock - thicker and a bit shorter than his own - touches his lubed hole and then pushes in. His eyes flutter close, the sudden stretch making him unable to think.

It’s all body sensation making him feel deaf. His breath comes in short gasps. He moans pitifully when Potter tries to move in him. Potter’s dick may as well be stuck in him, it certainly feels so.

“Try to relax around me,” instructs Potter and Tom can feel warm hand petting his head and then back. Another one comes around his body, hugging him close, and touches his dick that went soft under strain. It helps somewhat when Potter pleasures him with his hand, fondling his balls, tugging at his dick, all the while he starts to trust just a bit in him.

“Brave boy, you can take it,” whispers Potter. 

Tom squashes his head into pillows, his eyes closed. He is vulnerable anyway, his body pliant and open. The sensation of being fucked consists for him mainly of being stretched at the moment. Only when Potter brushes some spot inside him, his body tingles pleasantly.

“That was nice,” he mutters completely out of his mind.

The next trusts are more forceful with Potter no longer fretting about him being unused to the stretch. The man brushes his sweat spot, sometimes nailing it with his dick and eliciting shrill “oh!” from Tom.

He melts into the duvet. Potter keeps his hips to not let him slide away from position. Tom’s face is sweaty and his lips parted. He no longer thinks about sin when he reaches between his legs, supporting himself on his other arm.

“I promised… to fuck it out of you, didn’t I”, rasps out Potter. He splays his hand out on Tom’s abdomen and pressed.

Tom fights it weakly - not really being in a state to protest. “No,” he begs, his thighs shaking as he tries to move - he doesn’t know where - as he tries to dislocate the man’s hand and go back to being pleasantly fucked. “I- I don’t want to!”

He thinks about bed under him - there is not even a towel to protect it, were he to truly piss himself there. That surely entailed punishment. Wouldn’t Potter torture him until he cried as a baby to make his humiliation worse? Tom believed he would.

“You are such a filthy boy, Riddle,” says Potter, his words sheared off when he grits he jaw to strongly push in. “I am sure you will do it.”

He shouldn’t have drank that tea with Potter, he thinks, when the more insistent press of the man’s hand and a sharp thrust do it and his bladder gives in. A warm dribble wets his hand before he clamps himself to halt. It drips down instantly, leaving dark stains on the cornflower blue covers.

A short laugh comes from behind and Tom squeezes his eyes shut, his lips trembling in mortification while his cock tingles in interest. Oh why, he thinks, when Potter does that again. It’s easier now to make him pee and even more difficult than before to stop. He groans in desperation, teeth marking his lower lip.

It splatters the duvet. He turns his head away, his body thrumming with humiliation because he can smell the urine in the air and a few thrusts later he can no longer stop the stream. Tom whimpers, tearing up a little. Potter fucks it out of him, his piss splashing about in the rhythm of thrusts.

When Potter touches the front of Tom’s body, his hands slide easily on the wet skin. The bed is positively soaked.

Tom trembles and when Potter slaps his ass, uttering another taunt, he comes. His muscles contract sharply and it’s blissful silent and dark for a moment. Then the world comes back to him and he is ready to collapse from exhaustion. Potter holds him up for a few more thrusts until he spends himself too in Tom’s ass. He can be more dirty anyway.

Potter disentangles them and reaches for his wand left on the night table and mutters “Scourgify,” the sheets coming clean and dry under Tom’s skin. The man turns him around, the boy supine, and plants a tender kiss on his lips. “You did well, Riddle,” he whispers. “I will clean you.”

“Alright,” whispers Tom and blinks because there are still some tears glistening in his eyes. 

Potter wipes them with his thumb before they can spill and summons a towel to dry the boy. For a moment he hugs him close.

“How are you feeling?”

“Nice.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s a lengthy chapter but for the sake of Voldemort’s belief that 7 is a powerful, I decided not to split it. Maybe it will work some magic into my writing.
> 
> Tom is a mess in this chapter, isn’t he? I hope that in my quest to portray Tom as a ‘student as any other’ and not an evil mastermind, I haven’t overdone it. Keeping to his POV was so problematic sometimes. ^^
> 
> Reading and writing experiences are very different. The story is complete now and I would be very glad to hear how you perceive it - if you dislike the story or some parts of it I would like to hear that too.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Danger of Curiosity](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25059853) by [Gambler](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gambler/pseuds/Gambler)




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